Tis the (Holmesian) Season
by Domina Temporis
Summary: Another year, another December calendar of awesomeness from Hades Lord of the Dead! You know the drill, 31 days of user submitted prompts, to be filled as awesomely as possible. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So glad to be doing this again! Though it's been a long time since I've written anything for this fandom, bear with me. Might take me a couple of days to find my feet again.

Prompt: An ice sculpture competition, from mrspencil

* * *

It is a curious thing, that once well known, the famous seemingly become an authority on everything, their presence requested at events that have little to no relation to the very reason the person became famous in the first place.

My friend Sherlock Holmes was no exception. As his career flourished we became accustomed to receiving invitations and requests to all sorts of events that he took a fierce pleasure in declining. No one ever saw him attend one of the many society balls he was invited to and he regularly declined dinner invitations with the highest peers of the land, though he was not an infrequent guest at my table. The only public event he attended regularly was the theatre, strictly for concerts and operas. After his seeming return from the dead following his meeting with Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, when he rose to heights previously unheard of, he frequently lamented to me that he received more invitations to balls and requests to judge baking contests than professional consultations. "I am an expert in crime, Watson," he said. "Not a soothsayer to determine one's course in life." This after he had sent packing a young man who had been most anxious to consult my friend as to whether he should ask his sweetheart to marry him. I knew that Holmes had been hoping for a problem of interest and was most disappointed not to receive one, and that this accounted for his tetchy mood.

So it was that Sherlock Holmes took his coat and hat from the stand one bitterly cold day in January and turned to face me. "I should very much like your assistance, Watson, if you would be so good as to accompany me."

I had been about to begin the organization of my patient files and was therefore quite eager to do something other than that. "Do you have a case, Holmes?" I asked.

My friend chuckled in his silent way. "No, though I confess you may be of more help to me in my task today. No, Watson, I have been asked to judge an ice sculpture competition."

I followed him out the door, in a state of some surprise, for this was the sort of request he would ordinarily turn down with no thought. "That is not usual, Holmes. Why should you be named a judge for an ice sculpture competition?"

Holmes let out a sigh. "It seems the Association of Amateur Ice Sculptors - yes, there is such a thing, Watson - is in the habit of having a well-known figure as judge for their annual contest."

"And who better than the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes?" I finished knowingly. Many people thought such. Only last week he had been requested to referee a charity rugby game, though he knew nothing of the sport.

"Precisely," Holmes said. "I must confess the idea of art that must of necessity disappear after a time is rather a poetic one, is it not, Watson?"

My friend had, at times, a curiously poetic bent that appeared at unusual moments. I knew of his interest in art, as well as his connection to the Vernet family of artists, from whom he was descended. Perhaps this did account for his interest in judging an ice sculpture competition, though his taste in art differed extremely from both popular and critical opinions of art. I often accompanied him to art galleries in which there was not a single piece of what I would have called art.

We arrived at the park in which the competition was held to find the artists already hard at work. While the association's head greeted Holmes enthusiastically I began to wander among the artists, watching their work with the envy of one who is not artistically inclined. That they could create such work out of a substance which was doomed to melt was an accomplishment I could only dream of, and I stopped before one artist appreciatively. "That one is very good, don't you think, Holmes?" I asked. The man stopped his work to allow us to inspect it - a very lifelike rendering of a horse.

Holmes stopped next to me and examined the piece. "The legs are much too thin," he said derisively before moving on. I hurried to follow.

"I was not aware you are a great expert in horseflesh," I said.

"I am not," Holmes said. "However, the thinner the animal's legs, the more muscle and sinew one must include, and intricate work such as that requires more skill than that man has, I wager."

This seemed an unfair assessment and I continued on in silence, studying an ice castle closely and an icy replica of St. Paul's Cathedral that left me very impressed. Holmes said nothing about it, merely continuing to gaze at each artist's work. I stopped before one artist who had undoubtedly heard who would be judging the competition and decided to sweeten his way to victory. "Holmes…" I said, hiding my smile. The last artist had chosen to render a bust of my friend, in the deerstalker hat and Inverness cape that my illustrator, Sidney Paget, always erroneously depicted him wearing. The artist had evidently studied Paget's drawings, for he had captured Holmes's hawklike features very well.

"I am very glad to meet you!" the artist cried. "I am a great admirer of you, Mr. Holmes! And Dr. Watson, too! Why, it is the highlight of my week when I find a new Holmes story in the _Strand._

"Thank you," Holmes said, though he was no more enamored of my stories than he was of Paget's illustrations, and walked on without further word.

"It is a good likeness," I said to the artist, who appeared not to have noticed Holmes's rudeness and simply beamed at my compliment.

It was bitterly cold and it occurred to me that working in such conditions had to equal Michelangelo's feat of painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling alone on his back, though when I said as much to Holmes he accused me of hyperbole. Yet, when the contest was over, he appeared as ready as I to return to our fireside with a cup of tea. I surveyed the artists' completed work, and thought that I should almost certainly choose the replica of St. Paul's as the winner, though I had no idea which piece Holmes would choose. Though I did note that he was quite correct about the horse I had considered so lifelike; the artist in question did not have the skill to render the muscle correctly and the result was amateurish at best. Holmes, for his part, studied each piece closely before choosing the winner, a simple flame rendered in ice that I had overlooked.

"Why this piece, Holmes?" I asked, for it seemed very simple to me and did not compare at all to any of the other pieces.

"There is irony in rendering a flame in ice, don't you think, Watson?" Holmes asked. "Yet, for all its simplicity, it is an ideal subject for this medium. Ice is not a medium for detailed work, Watson, yet is ideally suited for any shape, particularly that of curves. I chose this piece for it shows off the medium best of any work here."

Holmes's discourses about art were often theoretical and beyond my understanding, though I thought I did begin to see something of what he was describing in the flame he had chosen. Its simplicity did come across very well in the ice, where the more ornate works lost much of their detail and did not compare. My friend's artistic eye was, clearly, better than my own and better than I had previously thought. He had clearly made the artist very happy, as the man smiled widely and shook hands with all his fellows, as well as with Holmes and myself. The winning sculpture would be displayed in the park for as long as the winter lasted, where we frequently stopped to see it until it at last went the way of all things winter. There was irony, I thought, in watching a flame melt, surely something not seen outside of poetry and ice sculptures. It was a shame that modern technology could not keep such a thing forever, I remarked to Holmes, though much of their appeal lies in their fleeting nature. Much like life, I thought to myself, though Holmes would have called me maudlin had he heard me.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompt: Starlight, from SheWhoScrawls

* * *

There is nothing quite like a long sea voyage to give one time to think, even if one does not necessarily want to think overmuch. The journey from India to London could take up tp twenty days if the wind and currents did not cooperate. After the first five days, during which I was still too weak from my bout with enteric fever to leave my cabin, I found myself idle, with little to do. I was still weak after months of illness during which many were sure I should not survive, so I endeavoured to walk above decks as much as I was able to build my strength. Yet such solitary walks - for I knew no one on this ship - did little to improve my mood and I still spent much time dozing in my cabin.

One night after a week onboard, I found myself unable to sleep and ventured on deck. The inky blackness of the night, dark as only the sea can be, matched the darkness of my current mood. There was no moon and the only visible light aside from our poor lamps was the starlight. I gazed up at the stars, remembering how in the sea tales I read as a boy, sailors of years past used them to find their way home. Yet for me, the stars were only a reminder of how far from home I was. We had only just entered the Red Sea, on our way to the Suez Canal, and the sky was not my home sky that I had been viewing since childhood, but the sky of the Southern Hemisphere. The starlight I now saw came from unfamiliar constellations that did nothing to comfort me. I suppose every man far from home wishes for familiar comforts and I sighed, leaning as best I could on the railing of the ship as it rocked in the waves. My arm was still not healed from the Jezail bullet that had left me unable to use it for months, and I gritted my teeth against the pain as I put more weight on it. I would have to become accustomed to using it, or else I could not return to medical practice, though every doctor I had spoken to told me that I should recover almost completely in time and would be able to continue my career. Right now, I could only trust in their predictions, and felt rather out of control of my own life.

It was thoughts of the future such as this that I had longed to avoid, but it now seemed a futile endeavour. I had entered the British Army as an impoverished young doctor, having just finished my medical degree with no other prospects. I had not had the funds necessary to purchase my own practice then and no luck in finding a position in a hospital. Simple necessity had driven me to what other men chose for the more noble reasons of patriotism and love of duty. It seemed, however, that my decision had only set me farther back. Not only was I returning to England with nothing other than my paltry army pension, I knew that it would be some time before I would be able to return to practice, if indeed I ever could. Despite what I had been told by other doctors in Her Majesty's Army, I was in no mood for optimism. There was too much to think of.

On returning to London, I should have to find lodgings and this seemed a daunting task with only a small army pension and no ability to work at present. I sighed and gazed back up at the stars, which winked innocently in the night sky, though in my current state of mind they seemed to me to be mocking my hardship. My thoughts began to circle in ever more desperate scenarios. What was I to do until I recovered enough to find a position? Surely one would not appear the moment I was ready to return to work and my pension would not last until I found work in London. Even in smaller cities such as Edinburgh or Liverpool I would likely struggle until then, and surely there would be fewer opportunities in the country places I might be able to afford. I found myself facing the prospect of months of recovery and further months of searching before I would be able to support myself again. Even worse, what if my recovery did not take the course I was promised? If I was unable to return to work at all, what should I do then? My pension was small and would only last for nine months, at which point I would have to find my own way. But if I was unable to return to practice, I knew of nothing else I could do that would allow me to support myself. The only thing I had once thought to do other than practice medicine was write, and I had long since given up that idea on the basis of financial necessity, Trying to sell one's writing required a great deal of time and effort that I simply did not have on eleven shillings and sixpence a day. I shook my head. Right now, I did not even have the pleasure and comfort of writing for myself, due to the injury in my shoulder which made writing painful.

I looked up at the stars again, this time more annoyed at myself than at my situation. If I had nothing but time to think, I should use it to plan my future. Certainly my prospects appeared dim, but I was not the first man to return from war to what seemed an uncertain future. Many of my predecessors found their way after such a setback, and I could do no less. I would simply need to plan and exercise some frugality. I ignored that this had not previously been one of my strengths. There must be solution that I had simply not thought of.

Perhaps I would be able to find a lodger to share rooms with, thus lessening the financial burden. I should prefer sharing to being alone, which only threw into sharp relief how very alone I was at the moment. I knew no one I could turn to for help, my parents both being long dead and having no immediate family other than my brother, Henry. I grimaced. From him, I was more likely to have to fend off requests for financial assistance then to receive any. We had been close as children and young men, but after he chose not to finish out his degree and instead began leading a life of frivolous pleasure and debauchery, we had seen and heard little of each other. No, I could not count on him. I thought next of my fellows from medical college, wondering if any of them know of a place where I could find a position upon my presumed recovery or even if any of them might desire a fellow lodger. We had been good friends while at college, but I had disappeared from their ranks into the army soon after taking my degree while they remained behind to become hospital surgeons and private practitioners, no doubt more successful in their careers than I, with no need to share rooms. I concluded sadly that none of them could now be considered close enough friends to ask for assistance. The same held for those men I served with in Afghanistan. I had moved between the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and the 66th Regiment of Foot, and as such had not cultivated any close friendships that could be counted on in times of difficulty. As an Army doctor, I had been somewhat separate from the men, who viewed me as being in a position of some authority, not a comrade in arms. Yet I was still under the command of the officers and could not associate freely with them either. For all that I had always read of the brotherhood of soldiers who served together far from home, I had not found such in my own army service, save perhaps from my faithful orderly, Murray, who had saved my life with his quick thinking and bravery. Yet he remained in Afghanistan, serving as orderly to my replacement, and was of no help to me now.

No, I should have to find my own way, and I discarded the idea of finding a fellow lodger as fanciful. I would be unlikely to be able to hold up my half of the cost of rooms on my small pension and in any case still needed a great deal of rest that would be difficult to achieve with a man whom I did not know. It would be unfair of me to insist that a fellow lodger take on the burden of my recovery when what I really needed was a nursemaid.

They say everyone sees with perfect clarity when looking backwards on their own life, and it seemed to me a shame that the future cannot be seen with equally clear vision. I had no idea what I should do, other than that joining the army had left my health in ruins and my finances in shambles. Yet I could not turn back the clock and undo that fateful decision, else I would surely have done so at this moment.

I looked out once more at what I presumed to be the horizon, unable to tell where the night sky ended and the sea began before I gave up and returned to my cabin, having made no decision. I could do no less than continue to press on, much as the ship continued its inexorable journey towards England and the stars continued to shine night after night. I resolved finally that I had nine months of a pension and time to recover my health, and set myself to that singular goal, pushing off any further decisions until such a time as I had to. Perhaps, in nine months, under the familiar starlight of England, my prospects would appear different. I hoped so, for I did not believe I could stand nine months of uncertainty only to find my situation unchanged. Surely some solution would present itself by then.


	3. Chapter 3

Prompt: Pants, from SheWhoScrawls

A/N: It took me longer than it should have to remember that pants refer to underwear in British English, but I then wrote this accordingly. Enjoy!

* * *

While many of my later readers assumed that I accompanied my friend, Sherlock Holmes, on every case, in reality this was far from true. While in later years, I acted more as assistant and biographer than I did as doctor, there were many instances in the early years of our partnership when Holmes did not even tell me of the cases he was working on, and the only inkling I had of them was the frequency and unusual times at which he ran in and out of the door of our shared rooms.

It was during one of these times that I returned to Baker Street, having just returned from purchasing an engagement ring for my dear Mary. I knew that, in her sensible way, she would not likely be surprised by my proposal, as we both knew we intended to spend our lives together and indeed I doubted whether it would be a surprise to anyone who knew us. But I had spent much time in choosing a ring, one that I hoped would both please and surprise her and was eager to show it off.

"Oh, Doctor, good afternoon," Mrs. Hudson said as I shut the door behind me. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, but first, I would like your opinion of something." In my excitement, I followed her into the kitchen as she went to prepare the tea and nearly dropped the small box as I took it out of my pocket. "Oh, forgive me," I said, then opened the box to reveal the small yet flawless diamond ring I had purchased. The setting was intricate, the gold curling around the diamond in patterns that reminded me of India, a place that held much history for us both.

"Oh, Doctor, is that for Miss Morstan?" Mrs. Hudson asked. When I nodded, our landlady broke out into a smile. "It is lovely, Doctor, and I am sure she will like it very much. May I offer you congratulations, or is it too premature?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, unable to resist a smile. "It is certainly not too early. I am the happiest man in London, I believe, and I have not even asked her yet."

Mrs. Hudson beamed at my obvious pleasure. "She's a lucky woman, Doctor, if you don't mind my saying so," she said. "And you are surely a lucky man as well."

"The luckiest," I said, thinking of how different my fortunes were now from when I had arrived in London seven years before. "Is Mr. Holmes in?" I asked.

"No, he ran out in a frenzy dressed as a common laborer about two hours ago," Mrs Hudson said. "He told me not to wait for him to serve dinner, if you were to arrive home."

"Oh," I said, somewhat disappointed, for I had wanted to show Holmes Mary's ring, as well as ask him to be my best man. "Well, it is no matter," I said, going upstairs and stuffing Mary's ring into my pocket for later. No sooner had I arrived in our sitting room than an urgent telegram arrived for me from one of my long-term patients who had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and I was obliged to hurry out.

I did not return home until the early hours of the morning, after a long vigil at my patient's side. I had promised the woman's family that I would return as soon as I was able, yet was so exhausted that I was barely able to change out of my clothes before collapsing into bed. The next morning I awoke after barely enough sleep, stopped only long enough to take a buttered roll with me and say a quick good morning to Holmes before hurrying out again.

After three days, I was sure my patient was out of danger and I arrived back in Baker Street, looking forward to some much-needed rest. "I trust all is well?" Holmes asked from the settee, where he was reclining with his pipe and the agony column.

"At last," I said with relief. "And you? Is your case completed to your satisfaction?"

"It is, though now that it is over I find myself once again in the unenviable position of having no work, no problem to occupy me," he said. "If I am fortunate, one will present itself soon."

I heartily agreed, for I knew what my friend was like with no crime to occupy his attention. Then I remembered Mary's ring and hurried upstairs. I had been so busy with my patient that I had not seen Mary in that time and had to postpone my proposal until I could plan the perfect moment for it. But at least I should be able to ask Holmes to be my best man. I entered my room, only to realize that I did not remember where I had placed the box. I searched in my armoire, on my nightstand, on my sideboard, finding no trace of the small box. In the beginning of a panic, I threw open my drawers and rummaged through my clothes, finding nothing resembling a ring box. What could I possibly have done with it?

I stood there in a state of confusion for a moment before it occurred to me that I lived with the foremost detective in the country, if not the Empire, and that he, of all people, should be able to help me. I hurried down the stairs. "Holmes!" I cried.

"Whatever is the matter?" Holmes asked, leaping up at the sight of me. I must have looked as if something truly terrible had happened, and knowing him, he no doubt assumed that someone had broken into my room and tried to attack me.

"It is not all that serious," I said. "In fact, I am sure it will be easily resolved. Before I was called away to my patient, I had got an engagement ring for Mary."

"Really?" Holmes said, smiling and coming forward to wring my hand. "Congratulations, my dear fellow! When are the nuptials to be?"

"I - oh, thank you, Holmes - well, never, if I do not resolve this problem," I said. "You see, I left so quickly three days ago that I cannot remember at all where I put the ring! If I do not find it, well, I don't know what I shall do." My shoulders slumped despondently. The ring had not been overly expensive, but neither had it been cheap and I could not afford another, especially not when that one was so well suited for Mary.

"Well, whatever are we waiting for?" Holmes cried. "The game is clearly afoot. Now, you must tell me everything you did from the time you purchased the ring. As best you can remember."

"Well," I said. "I took a cab back to Baker Street but I had it when I returned, because the first thing I did was show it to Mrs. Hudson."

"Excellent," Holmes said, the expression that made him look so like a bloodhound on the chase appearing in his keen eyes. "And then?"

"Well, I followed her into the kitchen," I began, and Holmes immediately leaped up and hurried down the stairs. I believe he startled the maid extremely when he barged in on the kitchen and began opening all sorts of cabinets and examining the counters until he finally determined that the ring was not here.

"What did you do after that?" Holmes asked.

"Well, I went upstairs. Mrs. Hudson told me you were out so I was going to spend time with my medical journals until you returned, only then I got the telegram calling me to my patient." I gasped. "Holmes, I had entirely forgotten! I had it in my pocket the entire time I was with my patient. I did not return until early the next morning."

"Now we are close," Holmes said. "What did you do with those clothes?"

"Well, I barely remember, I was so tired," I said. "But I believe I simply left them in a pile on my chair in my room." This was one of my own slovenly habits that even Holmes, bohemian as he was, could not abide. "But they were not there this morning. I am positive about that."

"Begging your pardon, Doctor," the maid said. "But I took those clothes to be washed two days ago. Mrs. Hudson asked me to."

I looked in horror at the large pot boiling on the fire, sure that Mary's ring had ended up melted in the heat. Perhaps I could at least save the diamond, I thought morosely, before Holmes asked, "And where do clothes go, before they are actually washed?"

"In the cellar, sir," the maid said. "To be sorted before we wash them on Monday."

"Thank you," Holmes said. "It is not yet Monday, Watson; perhaps a search of the cellar will reveal your missing ring."

I did not believe I had ever been in the cellar of our Baker Street rooms before and I looked in amazement at the neat shelves full of preserves and extra pots. It was no small wonder that Mrs. Hudson continually bemoaned both Holmes's and my messy habits, as she was so well organized. "Here, Watson," Holmes said, pointing out several baskets of laundry yet to be washed. I began searching through what appeared to be trousers and waistcoats, finding nothing, and turned to the next basket. I had barely touched it before stepping back in embarrassment. "What is it?" Holmes asked. "Come, we must search through everything!"

"But Holmes," I said. "Those are Mrs. Hudson's-" my face grew warm as if on fire and I lowered my voice, even though we were alone in the cellar. "- _pants."_

Holmes was never one to observe social niceties, and began searching through the offending basket. "Holmes, it is unlikely the ring is even in there," I said, trying to stop him.

"Until you have eliminated the possibility entirely, the theory may still be true," Holmes said, which I took to mean that we would have to search through all of Mrs. Hudson's pantalettes to determine that my ring had not fallen among them. I hoped desperately she would never find out about this, but my hopes were dashed barely two minutes later when Mrs. Hudson herself came down the cellar steps, only to look horrified when she saw us.

"Mr. Holmes! What are you doing searching through my-my-" our estimable landlady appeared so shocked as to not be able to form words, and for his part, I had never seen Holmes stand up straight so quickly, nor look so thoroughly ashamed of himself.

"We were merely trying to solve a case that has come my way, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said, attempting his usual imperious tone. This failed miserably, as it is nearly impossible to maintain such a tone after being caught searching through one's landlady's pants. I could only stand back and admire the attempt, my face burning warm enough to light up the whole cellar.

"A case?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "What case could possibly require this?" She crossed her arms expectantly, and Holmes glanced towards me, his expression seemingly desperate for help.

"I, er, seem to have misplaced the ring I bought for Miss Morstan," I said. "I do apologize, Mrs, Hudson, only we were sure it must have ended up in the laundry and were trying to find it."

Mrs. Hudson, in response, fairly stomped towards me, pulling something out of her apron pocket. "I've been holding onto this for the past two days, only you've hardly been home in all that time," she said. "I found it when the maid brought me your washing two days ago and if you had _asked me_ -" here she gave a rather dark look at Holmes, "-instead of searching through my washing I would have told you."

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a saint," I burst out. "Thank you, thank you very much!" I took the box back and inspected the ring, no worse the wear for having been discarded so callously with my clothes and brought down in the washing. Our landlady gave us one last look that told us we had best leave the cellar as quickly as possible, and we hastily retreated into our room.

"Well," Holmes said. "I expect we shall have nothing but cabbage soup for the next week."

"Probably," I agreed. "Thank you for helping me search for it, Holmes. Though I am sorry I got you in trouble with Mrs. Hudson."

Holmes waved a hand. "Trouble with landladies is nothing new to me. Mrs. Hudson shall forgive us in time." Mrs. Hudson was, indeed, most forgiving of our faults as tenants. "Now, Watson, may I offer you proper congratulations? Miss Morstan is indeed a lucky woman."

A far cry from his initial reaction to my proposing to court Miss Morstan, but a welcome one. "Thank you, my dear Holmes," I said, then noticed the time. "Perhaps, in light of our indiscretion, we should dine out for lunch?"

"A capital idea, my dear fellow," Holmes said, taking his hat and stick and following me out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Prompt: Hive, from zanganito

* * *

When Watson began to write and then to publish these little adventures he and I have from time to time, I had no inkling they were to change our lives so utterly. From a virtually unknown, and yes struggling, consulting detective I suddenly became someone who was easily recognizable on the street, even from a passing hansom.

This is naturally a disadvantage in a profession in which one must remain anonymous, but I let it pass (of more interest to me was the frightful way Watson took cases solved easily through rationality and analysis and turned them into romantic tripe suited only for penny dreadfuls, but that is another issue). However, as I sat at my mirror applying a disguise, it occurred to me that I now had to take extra care with my disguises, as my features had become so well-known. I frowned at my reflection, artfully applying smudges of dirt on my face so I might appear to be a common sailor. Watson tells me that my features are such that anyone who has seen me once or twice would easily be able to find me in a crowd and once pointed out that I should probably not be so easily recognizable from his stories if I did not have so distinctive a face. He might have been peevish at the criticism I had leveled upon the story of The Red-Headed League, though I maintain that I should not be so easily recognizable if he did not have an illustrator advertising my face throughout the Empire. Not to mention making it impossible for me to wear a deerstalker again, should I ever need to.

I applied some of the new theatre glue I had found to my cheeks, in order to affix some false whiskers. I had been assured by the shopkeeper that this new glue would last for hours under all sorts of conditions, after my last supply proved to lose its sticky quality after only four hours. The whiskers were full and bushy, and matched exactly to my hair color. I smiled underneath the hair, though my expression was hardly visible in the mirror. After placing a seamen's cap on my head and using an impermanent blue ink to apply a blue anchor tattoo to my wrist, even Watson would hardly know it was me (though he never does, dear chap. One would think after years of outlandish characters entering our sitting room, simple repetition would tell him they were likely to be me). A good disguise, of course, is all in the acting, and I was long practiced at mingling with the sort of rough men one found at the docks of the Thames.

I scratched absently at the whiskers as I went out in search of my quarry, a shipping company clerk who the sailors had reason to believe was cheating them of their wages. I saw a few of the better-dressed people around Baker Street look askance at me, for sailors were not a common sight in this part of the city, and only took it as proof that my disguise had worked. I was unrecognizable, in an area in which everyone knew me. I made sure to affect a clumping gait that suggested the sort of injury a sailor was likely to receive, though one long healed. I had once made a study of the way such injuries healed and their long-term effects, enlisting Watson for a long afternoon filled with diagrams until he insisted we go out to dinner. I scratched again at the whiskers, thinking idly that I may have ordered them with slightly too much hair. There was an uncomfortable tickle where the false beard met my cheeks.

The docks were teeming with activity and it was an easy thing to lose myself among the lower classes of London, where no one looked very closely at each other and indeed, one wrong look could end in worse than a fistfight. I grimaced, however, wondering how men who truly wore beards managed. My face was becoming most uncomfortably hot, though I managed to force myself not to scratch, or worse, to rip the false whiskers off and give away my disguise.

The shipping clerk who I had been hired to investigate on suspicion of fraud was at his desk and I joined in with the men loading the ships to keep a close watch upon him, though this was made more difficult by how often I had to stop to scratch. What the deuce was _wrong_ with these whiskers? I noticed some of the other men looking at me strangely, and I hastily retreated. Too much attention and they would realize I was not supposed to be there at all. I would have to attempt this another day, after some time when no one would remember the odd fellow who kept scratching at his face. Deuce! A whole day and perhaps more wasted, though I could hardly keep my mind occupied on how frustrated I was when I kept having to force myself not to scratch. It was all I could do as I hurried back to Baker Street not to rip the offending whiskers from my face, though I did so the instant I shut the door behind me. Once back in my room removing all other traces of the common seaman, I noticed the reason for the offending itch immediately. A red blotch covered the bottom half of my face on either side. I poked it, noting the raised red bumps that were extraordinarily itchy. I examined the full, black whiskers again, hoping that they were not infested with some pest such as lice. Mrs. Hudson should never forgive me if that was the case, but I knew the proprietor of the wig shop and had never had any such problem before. He kept a fastidious shop that would no doubt put many a hospital to shame (I have learned a thing or two from Watson. Should I ever be injured for any reason I shall insist he treat me in our Baker Street rooms).

Thankfully, when I awoke the next morning the red blotches had all but disappeared, and I spent the day in organizing the financial records of the shipping company so I could prove the fraud. Watson was out all day at his rounds, and I was so intent I hardly noticed the time passing until he was returning to dinner, at which point I remarked that I should be out all the next day, searching for the shipping clerk. I appeared to be fully healed and anticipated that the case should be solved by the end of the next day.

This, however, required the use of the disguise once again, though this time I barely made it down the stairs before it felt as if my face had suddenly gone on fire and I ran back up, sure I could not make it through an extended stake-out at the docks. I tore the false beard from my face and tossed it aside. "Whatever is the matter, Holmes?" Watson asked mildly.

"Those infernal whiskers have caused me such a itch!" I said, gingerly touching the offending areas. The small red bumps I had noticed previously appeared to be larger to my touch then they had the first time, and I groaned in frustration as I took the small mirror Watson so kindly handed me. My face, even in the small mirror, was puffy and inflamed, and no one should have recognized me. Pity that I could not investigate crimes in this condition; no one should have known it was me. I tightened my fingers into a fist so that I would not scratch. If I did, I was likely to draw blood, so terrible was the itch.

"That does look serious, Holmes," Watson said, examining both sides of my face. "Are you certain it was the whiskers?"

"What else could it be?" I asked peevishly, though his question raised a prospect I had not thought of. With notoriety comes enemies, particularly when one deals with crime. I had already dispatched of the criminal mastermind, Moriarty, and his henchmen, but there still remained many others eager to take on the mantle of greatest criminal in London. Any one of them could have found an opportunity to poison me. "Watson, you are right!" I said. "Here," I thrust books of poisons at him from my bookshelf. "We must find one that accounts for these symptoms."

"Are you sure it is poison, though, Holmes?" Watson asked, leafing through one book and raising his eyebrows at a particularly grim depiction of the effects of hemlock.

"We cannot be certain until we search through every possible cause!" I said, sitting upon the floor with an enormous encyclopedia of poisons balanced on my knee. Watson, I was irked to see, merely placed his book unopened on the chair and bent to pick up my abandoned whiskers. He looked at them closely, fingering the inside and sniffing at them.

"How do these stay upon your face?" he asked at last.

"Theatre glue, Watson," I said. "Painted on and held in place for barely a minute, it will last for hours. An ingenious invention. In fact, I have only just acquired a new type that I was promised will hold through all conditions." I had been thrilled to find that someone else had obviously contemplated what should happen if a false beard needed to stay in place if one was suddenly thrown into a body of water and then accordingly invented a glue that should do just that.

"May I?" Watson asked, gesturing towards my room.

"For heaven's sake, Doctor, you do not need my permission," I said irritably. I never asked permission when I needed to search his room. Watson disappeared and reappeared a moment later, examining the container of theatre glue.

"Do you know what is in this, Holmes?" he asked. "It does not say."

I could have told him in detail its chemical composition but I was engaged in reading about the effects of cyanide (though this did not seem to be the cause of my itch) and merely threw him a dark look. "Whyever does that matter?" I asked.

"Because that," Watson said, bending down and pointing to the red blotch on my jawline, "is a hive, and a rather large one. I think it likely you are allergic to the ingredients in this glue, Holmes."

Oh. That, as I was fond of saying myself, explained perfectly all the facts and was considerably more likely than my being poisoned. The more I thought of it, the more likely it seemed. Surely if I was to be poisoned, I should have some idea of who I had offended enough to resort to murder. It _was_ a new mix of glue, and therefore likely that it contained ingredients that were not in the previous product I had used. I supposed living with a medical man had its uses, and I should be prepared to give way in cases where his expertise was greater than mine. Watson was looking at me knowingly, as if to point out himself how rare those occasions were. "That...does seem plausible, Doctor," I said, putting away the enormous encyclopedia and getting up. "Only tell me one thing," I added, as I scratched and scratched so that it seemed as if I would scratch my whole face off. "Is there something you can do to rid me of this infernal itch?"

Watson chuckled. "I have some cream that should help. It is what I give to the children who have chicken pox. You should be clear of it in a day or two." He dug some cream out of his bag. "Though you shall probably have to find a different means of disguising yourself."

"Hmmph," I said, taking the cream and applying nearly half the jar before I sighed in relief as the burning itch ceased. "Perhaps I should simply grow a beard. It would certainly be easier."

Watson's horrified expression told me what I needed to know about this proposal and I was unable to stop myself from collapsing into giggles, and after a moment he joined me. "I do hope you were joking, Holmes," he said.

"Do not worry, Doctor," I said. "No doubt if I were to grow my own whiskers, Paget should draw me with a handlebar mustache and sideburns instead. The poor man is confused enough about my wardrobe that I think I shall spare him that, at least."

This caused Watson to laugh so uproariously that Mrs. Hudson thumped on our floor with her broom handle, marking the first time she has ever told us to be quiet, gunshots and midnight violin solos notwithstanding, a feat of which Watson remains thoroughly proud, in a rueful sort of way, and I continue to bring up shamelessly as it causes me no end of amusement.


	5. Chapter 5

Prompt: Two years after Mary's death, Watson thinks he sees her whilst Christmas shopping, from W.Y. Traveller.

A sad one today

* * *

Winter had arrived in full force in London in 1896, the biting cold and heavy winds making it a thoroughly miserable affair to go about daily business. I had always found winter a dreary season to begin with, and viewed the prospect of Christmas shopping in such weather with dread. I should, I suppose, have begun earlier, but between my duties at the hospital and the number of cases my friend Sherlock Holmes was taking on, I had had hardly a moment to myself in months.

Holmes, however, viewed the weather with indifference, only noticing if it prevented him from investigations, and sometimes not even then. I remember many occasions on which we had relied on poor weather to hide us from some ruffian or criminal. This, of course, meant that when it was one of the rare beautiful days we had in England, he would be inclined to stay shut up indoors all day with his foul-smelling chemicals, while insistent that we needed to search all of London for a particular type of hairbrush for a case all in the pouring rain.

Today, however, my friend was without a case and laying languidly upon the settee, letting the various sections of the newspaper fall onto the floor as he discarded them. He seemed ready to fill the room in a cloud of smoke and not move for the rest of the day when I suddenly determined that if I put off my Christmas shopping any more, I would likely not have a chance to do it at all. "Holmes, would you mind very much accompanying me?" I asked, putting on my coat and tying and scarf around my neck.

"Christmas shopping at last, Watson?" Holmes asked, springing up immediately. He must indeed have been bored.

"Now, Holmes, really! However did you know that?" I asked.

My friend chuckled in his silent way. "My dear Watson, your forehead has recently developed the tiniest wrinkle whenever you are preoccupied with something. I observed it first two weeks ago and have watched it increase since. Undoubtedly something has been weighing on your mind, yet it is not related to your work, for you would surely have mentioned any medical problem serious enough to have lasted a fortnight, nor is it related to a case, for we do not have one at present, nor is it financial, as I have not seen you doing your ledger in some time. Given the season and the decreasing number of days until Christmas, it is clearly because you have not yet done your Christmas shopping."

I stared at him in some amazement and he smiled at my incredulity. "Come, Watson. As it happens I have also been late in shopping for the season. Perhaps we shall both accomplish our goal today."

We headed out into the bitter cold and hailed a hansom immediately, which Holmes instructed to take us to Oxford Street. I sat back, relieved to be out of the cold and the wind, and watched the passersby. It occurred to me that Christmas was the only bright spot in an otherwise long and cold winter, and that when it was over we would have months before the arrival of spring. It was a dreary thought, and I distracted myself by attempting to guess the professions of the people we passed on the street, as Holmes often did, though I did not do so aloud, not wanting Holmes to laugh and then deduce them all so brilliantly it would put me to shame.

I guessed one fellow a bricklayer based on the color of the dust on his trousers before I remembered that there was unlikely to be any bricklaying going on in the middle of winter, then felt I had better luck with deciding a passing young man was an accounting secretary, judging by the heaviness of the books he carried. I turned my attention to a young lady just passing when I gasped aloud, sure I could not have seen what I thought I had. I looked behind me quickly as the young lady passed out of sight. Her hair was exactly the same color, her gait the same. Even in height and build, she was exactly the same as my dear Mary, dead these two years. "Watson?" Holmes asked in some concern, seeing my reaction. "You have gone quite pale, old fellow. What is it?"

"It is nothing," I said, sitting back. It could not be. I had held Mary's hand as she died, chosen her casket, attended her funeral. Of course it could not be. I was a fool to be taken in by such tricks of the eye, though not enough a fool to admit so to Holmes. He would no doubt think me unduly sentimental, or worse, think there was something truly wrong with me.

"Come, Watson, you are white as a sheet," Holmes said.

I sighed, feeling his keen gaze upon me and knowing he never dropped a line of inquiry until he received an answer. "I thought I saw Mary, there on the street," I said. "Of course it was not. Only a lady who looked very much like her." I looked out the window so he would not notice any display of emotion. Surely he would not understand, all coldness and rationality as he was. Yet two years had passed and I still missed Mary as much as I had the day I lost her. I would have given anything for one more moment together. "A trick of the eye," I said gruffly. "Foolish of me."

"Is it?" Holmes asked. "The senses are not infallible, Watson. They see only what things appear to be. It is the job of the brain to interpret and the brain is, at times, known to interpret things as it wishes them to be rather than as they are."

Such admittances were most unlike Holmes, and he gave me a small smile.. "Do you think I never saw men who resembled you, while I was adrift, being chased across the world for three years by Moriarty's henchman?" He appeared almost ashamed to admit it, but he continued. "A certain gaze in one man's eye, another who wore a similar hat, and it was I turning around, sure that I had seen you."

"You, Holmes?" I said in some disbelief.

My friend shrugged. "I must confess I was surprised the first time. I am used to living by my senses, Watson, and to be unable to trust them...well, I was certain I had lost the only thing left to me, and that was a hard blow on top of losing my career, my home…" Unspoken was that he had lost a friend, though he did not need to give voice to the sentiment for me to know it was there. "After a time I realized it was simply my mind interpreting what I saw as what I wished it to be," he said.

It seemed he would never cease to amaze me; with this admittance he seemed that much more human than he ever had, rather than the perfect thinking machine he appeared. Furthermore, he was correct. Such experiences were not unknown to me. I had experienced similar things during his disappearance. One man's hawklike nose, another's ink-black hair, and I had been sure I had seen Holmes, before telling myself that it could not be. Such sightings became frequent enough that I only wished for them to stop, for they kept alive a seemingly impossible hope. Yet, hadn't I been wrong? Had he not returned, seemingly from the grave? Was it truly so impossible?

For Mary, though, it was, and if my mind was searching for her in the crowds of London, it would never find her. How cruel, that fate returned my dearest friend to me just as it took my beloved wife. If I was to see her everywhere I went, searching for something that could never return, I felt as if I would never be able to live without the constant companion of grief and longing. The thought of another Christmas without her was suddenly unbearably painful. "Holmes, would you mind terribly if we changed our plans?" I asked. "I find I am no longer in the mood for Christmas shopping, but I would like to stop at the cemetery."

"Of course, Watson," Holmes said, his normally cold features sympathetic. "The shopping shall wait for another day."


	6. Chapter 6

Prompt: Cookies, from SheWhoScrawls

* * *

It was, as I recall, a dull, grey day in December while Holmes was occupied in some sort of chemical experiment and I was being rather lazy by the fire with a novel when there was a knock at our door. "That will be Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said.

"Yes," I said, somewhat peevishly. I may not have mastered the science of deduction but I had lived at Baker Street long enough to recognize when our landlady was at the door. I put my book aside and opened the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson with a basket, which she promptly handed to me. "What is this?" I asked.

"Cookies, from Mrs. Hitchens in 230," Mrs. Hudson said. I then noticed the attached card and read its message out loud.

"'For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to celebrate his first Christmas on his return to London.' Well, that was thoughtful, wouldn't you say, Holmes?"

"I dislike butter cookies," he said, as Mrs. Hudson took her leave down the stairs.

"Well, I like them very much," I said, taking one. It was delicious, soft and rich, and I doubted the batch would last much more than two days, even if Holmes did not eat any.

No sooner had I thought this than Mrs. Hudson was again knocking on our door. "I'm sorry, Doctor," she said. "Mrs. Roberts in 219 sent these." She was holding another basket of cookies, which turned out to be raisin, a flavor of which neither Holmes nor I are fond.

"'Congratulations, Mr. Holmes, on your return to London.'" I read aloud. Holmes wrinkled his nose in distaste. "It was a nice gesture," I said. "Perhaps we can bring the basket to Scotland Yard." The officers would no doubt appreciate the bounty, and we certainly could not eat all these cookies by ourselves. I put both baskets of cookies on the sideboard and turned to close the door behind me, but at that moment Mrs. Hudson appeared again, this time with yet another basket of cookies. "Where are all these coming from?" I exclaimed.

"This one is from Mrs. Edwards across the street in 220," Mrs. Hudson said. "Chocolate chip, by the smell of them."

"'Welcome back, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'" I looked at the three baskets of cookies in some despair, knowing we could not possibly eat all of them without making ourselves sick. "Why did everyone choose today to send us cookies?" I said.

"Well, Christmas is approaching," Holmes remarked. This, in my view, did nothing to explain why we were suddenly receiving cookies today and at no other time. Save for the past three years, Holmes had lived at 221b Baker Street since 1881 and at no time during those years had anyone sent him Christmas cookies. He was more likely to receive complaints about his midnight violin solos or the occasional gunfire emanating from our shared rooms than compliments of the season.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, indeed," I grumbled under my breath. The three large baskets stood on our sideboard, leaving no room for anything else. Holmes, of course, heard me and laughed silently. "Well, what are we to do with all these cookies?" I asked.

"I daresay the Irregulars will make short work of them," Holmes said. "The remainder can, as you suggested, go to the Yarders."

I doubted very much that anyone would want to eat what was left of the cookies after the Irregulars had been at them, and was about to say so when Mrs. Hudson knocked again. I turned to see her with an even larger basket. "Oh, who is that from?" I asked in some exasperation.

"The Pendletons, in 226," she answered. "Shall I put it with the others?" She looked at the precarious balance of baskets on the sideboard and miraculously found a clear space large enough for the new basket.

I peeked inside and found another card. "'Dear Mr. Holmes, a very Merry Christmas to you, on your return to London,'" I read. The cookies inside appeared to be sugar cookies, and I reflected that if we had the makings of a bakery with the amount of cookies we were receiving. "What are we going to do with all these cookies?" I asked despairingly.

"I have an idea," Holmes said, finally getting up from his experiment to examine the cookies. He knocked on the wall and within moments, there appeared from a crack near the floor, two small mice. Far from being alarmed by this, Holmes simply smiled and knelt down to them. I remained upright, not entirely sure why my friend was suddenly so welcoming to what everyone else considered household pests.

However, nothing Holmes had ever done, including returning from his seeming death, surprised me as much as what he did next. "Ah, Basil," he said. "I have received rather a large amount of cookies for the Christmas season and thought that perhaps you and Dr. Dawson would like to share them with us."

"Er, Holmes," I said gently, for I was now worried for his sanity. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, Watson," Holmes said, jumping up as if he had only just remembered something. "I entirely forgot you have never been introduced. Dr. Watson, meet our fellow-lodgers." He gestured down at the two mice, and I bent to get a closer look.

The taller of the two swept his hat off his head and introduced himself with a flourish. "Basil of Baker Street, my good sir. This is my friend, Dr. Dawson."

"Very pleased to meet you," the shorter mouse said.

"I - well, yes, you as well," I said, still in shock. The two mice were wearing clothes, for heaven's sake! Miniature versions of gentlemen's clothes, hats. The taller one - Basil - even had a tiny version of the deerstalker hat that Holmes was always depicted wearing. In fact, this Basil of Baker Street had very much of Holmes's look about him, not only in his outfit. His eyes were as keen and sharp as my friend's were, and as for Dr. Dawson, well he even affected a small mustache similar to my own. I turned to stare at Holmes, dumbfounded.

My friend laughed to see my confusion. "I discovered Basil and Dr. Dawson here some years ago, after you and I were no longer sharing these rooms. It was quite a mystery. Mrs. Huson noticed some candies missing, you know, the little ones she keeps for the Irregulars?" I did indeed and I nodded for him to continue. "Well, I searched everywhere for the culprit, until at last the only possible solution revealed itself to me. Mice were evidently stealing our candy. I laid a trap and remained in wait until at last I caught these two at it."

"Though it took some convincing before your landlady allowed us to stay," Basil said with some asperity.

"She is most fond of you now," Holmes assured him. "She even sets some candy aside for them now, Watson."

"They are Basil's favorite," Dawson said. I was still amazed that our fastidious landlady was apparently happy to share her home with mice in addition to Holmes and myself. Regardless of the intelligence of those mice.

"Now, let us see what kind of cookies you have," Basil said, climbing up the leg of the sideboard. "Sugar, butter, chocolate chip, ahh, raisin! Dawson's favorite."

"I shall leave the baskets here for you," Holmes said. "Though I cannot promise my Irregulars will not get into them."

Basil, meanwhile, had piled his arms full of raisin cookies, before dropping them to give his companion a helping hand. Soon they both had armloads of cookies, and Holmes brought them down the floor by his own hand so they could return to their own living quarters.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Dawson said as they disappeared into the crack in the wall.

"We shall certainly return!" Basil added dramatically. I confess I stared at the crack in amazement for some time before looking at Holmes in confusion.

Holmes laughed at my expression. "Well, I admit, Watson, that I was just as confused as you when I discovered them. I expected to find ordinary mice, not these little gentlemen. But it turned out they had been living here for quite some time before they came to my notice."

I simply stared at him. "They can talk," I finally said.

"Yes, they can indeed," Holmes said. "I have met them several times since, Watson, and it is quite fascinating. Would you believe that Basil is a consulting detective as well?"

This proved beyond my capability to believe and I burst into hearty laughter at the thought. "Come now, Holmes! That is just unbelievable!" I said.

"Nonetheless, it is true," Holmes said. "I was reluctant to believe it at first myself, but eventually it proved to be true. Basil has told me there is a whole society of mice, much the same as our own world, living under our feet that we never notice. Truly ingenious! Perhaps I shall make a study of it one day."

"Perhaps you should," I said. "So Basil solves crimes and-"

"And Dr. Dawson writes of his cases," Holmes finished for me. "They are a most interesting mirror, are they not? As it happens I have read some of Dawson's stories and they are full of the same romantic nonsense as yours, Watson. Though he has taken some cases on interest."

I was long past being insulted by his opinion of my writing, and instead thought only that it would be very pleasant to talk with another author of similar stories - though perhaps it would turn only into complaining about our respective fellow-lodgers! "Well, they certainly seem like quiet little fellows," I said. "I shall certainly be glad if they can help us eat these cookies!" I glanced at the door, relieved when Mrs. Hudson did not appear with yet another basket of cookies. "Though perhaps I should go inform Mrs. Hudson to send any further baskets to the Yard," I said. I smiled. "Perhaps there is a mouse version of the Yard under their feet they can share the cookies with."

* * *

A/N: You know I always have to include Basil every year :)


	7. Chapter 7

Prompt: Counting sheep, from sirensbane

* * *

As neither of us had ever shared rooms before, I knew there would be a necessary period of adjustment for both myself and Mr. Sherlock Holmes when we moved into our new lodgings at 221b Baker Street in the winter of 1881. Though it soon became clear that the adjustment was largely to fall on me, as my own habits were quiet to the point of reclusivity while I still recovered from my ordeal in Afghanistan that they could make no difference to Holmes in the course of his daily life.

I, however, found myself in the position of quickly becoming used to an array of unusual characters making their way to our sitting room and the smell of noxious chemicals at any hour he wasn't otherwise occupied. Far from being annoyed at these interruptions to my recovery, I found myself quite fascinated by my new fellow-lodger, no doubt a result of the boredom that comes with an extended recovery and an inability to take part in daily life. Learning the reasons for our many unusual visitors, during the course of the case I later published as _A Study in Scarlet_ , did nothing to dim my fascination, or indeed, to make life with Holmes more predictable.

As I recall, it was not until June of 1881 that I was awoken by the strains of a violin. Those readers familiar with Sherlock Holmes know that such midnight solos became common, yet on this first occasion, I very nearly thought it was a dream before I squinted at the clock and realized it was barely one in the morning. I yawned widely, put on my dressing gown and descended the stairs slowly, still half asleep.

In our sitting room, framed as a silhouette against the dark window, was Sherlock Holmes, his violin on his shoulder, playing a concerto I would undoubtedly have found enjoyable had it not been the middle of the night. Even now though, I marveled at his ability to play so complicated a piece from memory, while barely able to see in the darkness. He was a masterful player, and at times it seemed to me as if he put all his emotion into his music rather than in his words or actions.

"Holmes, whatever are you doing?" I asked, when he finally seemed to reach a stopping point. He had such an imperious manner that even when he was disturbing my sleep I was loath to interrupt him, yet he only turned around with a look that could almost be described as apologetic.

"Dr. Watson, do forgive me. I had no idea my playing would wake you," he said. I was about to ask how he apparently did not realize that sound carried very easily up the stairs and through the ceiling, coming to the conclusion that perhaps acoustics was yet another subject he knew little about, much like astronomy. Though such a gap in knowledge would seem a failure in so talented a musician.

"May I ask why you have decided to have an impromptu midnight concert?" I asked, in some exasperation.

"It helps me to think," he said. "I found myself unable to sleep, and in the absence of a case I found I needed to occupy my mind in some fashion."

I had often been plagued my insomnia in the course of my recovery, when my sleeping patterns were utterly disturbed. Despite my annoyance at being awoken in the middle of the night, I found myself sympathetic. Perhaps it was that I had not acted in my capacity as doctor for nearly a year, and was accordingly more eager to practice my profession, even in so unofficial a capacity as this. "Do you often have trouble sleeping?" I asked. I did remember other occasions on which I came downstairs in the morning to find that Holmes was still at the armchair, still in his clothes from the previous day.

"Sometimes," he answered, putting down his violin and sitting next to me by the long-dead fire. "You know I am often out at night on the trail of a case. In my career I must keep unusual hours."

Aside from the Jefferson Hope case, the majority of cases he had taken this far appeared to be those that he could solve from this very armchair, though he would begin to take on a more active role shortly, as his fame grew and he found ever more complicated cases.

"Besides," he continued. "It is the curse of having a mind like my own, that it craves occupation more than sleep. When I do not have something for it to chomp it, I find myself searching for something to occupy me. It renders all attempts to do otherwise futile until I have some problem to work on."

I knew something of the turn of my friend's mind by then, having been the recipient by now of many a lecture on some obscure subject, often by virtue of being a captive audience. Yet this admission revealed a great deal about what lay under the lax, bohemian image he presented to the world. While he was extraordinarily lazy while not on a case, his formidable mind was always engaged upon some problem, whether it was criminal in nature or an analysis of the varying styles of medieval chant. Still, I did not think it gentlemanly to wake up all other occupants of the house with violin concertos (for undoubtedly Mrs. Hudson was also awake, though she was still somewhat in awe of her new lodger and was unlikely to take him to task. Yet.) "Have you tried counting sheep?" I asked peevishly.

Holmes smiled at my suggestion. "That has never worked for me, Doctor. The repetition is more tedious than the lack of mental occupation in the first place."

I thought about pointing out that this was the intended purpose of the activity, that the very dullness of counting sheep was supposed to bore one into sleep, but instead I found myself beginning to chuckle. "It has never worked for me either," I said, remembering many an occasion on which my mother suggested the very same thing. "I always ended up giving the sheep individual characters and imagining what they looked like, so it became too interesting to fall asleep," I confessed.

Holmes surprised me by laughing out loud at this admission. "That is no surprise for an aspiring author," he said, and I stared at him in some amazement. I had not told him of my interest in writing; indeed, I had not told anyone how much I enjoyed it. "Oh, come now, Watson," Holmes said. "It was an easy enough deduction. When I first told you of my profession as a consulting detective, your thoughts jumped immediately to the fictional detectives Dupin and Lecoq, who you were evidently extremely familiar with by the speed at which you brought up their names to me. By that time I had already taken note of how often you are to be found in that very chair reading a yellow-backed novel. There are times when you are so engrossed you have not even heard me if I spoke to you."

This was largely because I had found out early that one could not live with Sherlock Holmes without mastering the ability of tuning him out on occasion, yet it was true that I often lost track of time while lost in a novel. Still, many people enjoyed reading without wanting to write, and I looked at him questioningly. "I have not been able to write while I have been in recovery," I said. "You have demonstrated your observational ability before, Holmes, yet I cannot see that you could deduce something I have not done since we took rooms together."

Holmes smiled in the way that usually preceded some display of his deductive prowess, though his eyes glinted with interest, and I saw that his boredom had been driven away. "Why, Watson, one need only look at our shared bookcase to see the evidence. In addition to those romantic novels you like so much, you have no fewer than three guides to writing fiction that were previously well-read, though not so much recently." Each of the guides in question had been purchased in my college days, and had given me brief respites from the rigors of my medical degree while I read and reread the advice they contained, before remembering that I was to be a doctor and writing was a fanciful dream that would not pay any future bills. "In addition, it was only a few months ago that I left you my article, "The Book of Life," for you to read, outlining the science of deduction."

I was still somewhat embarrassed over my cavalier dismissal of the article's conclusions, as I had now had ample time to see that Holmes was indeed correct in his assertions. Holmes, however, did not seem at all perturbed. "The very first thing you mentioned was that the article was well-written, so clearly the ability to write masterfully is important enough to you that it is the very first thing you notice."

"Ingenious,"I said under my breath, almost involuntarily. "You have got it exactly, Holmes." Though I knew that once on a train of thought, he was not likely to stop talking until he had finished it. At first I had thought this was the trait of a show-off, though now I was inclined to believe he simply needed an outlet for his thoughts, else they seemed to remain trapped in his head, leading directly to nights of missed sleep and impromptu violin solos.

I was correct, for Holmes continued, "Furthermore, while you do not have my observational and deductive ability, you are not without some observational skills of your own, Watson. Do you not remember your list of my limits?"

I very nearly groaned and put my head in my hands. I doubted I should ever live down the list I had made for my own amusement of my new lodger's strengths and weaknesses. "I shall not easily forget, Holmes," I said.

"Well, such a list can only be the result of your own observations of my abilities, and I am the first man to admit that you were entirely accurate in your assessment of me," he said. "You simply lack the ability to take your observations and put them together in a complete picture. I, for instance, had I been handed your list of limits, should have been able to deduce the person's occupation in a matter of moments." Perhaps sensing that I was somewhat insulted by his cavalier assessment of my lack of deductive ability, Holmes continued, "You observe as an author observes, Watson. Broad strokes of interest that create an interesting character, rather than those small details that put together a complete picture of a man. Plus, of course, you have that turn toward the romanticism that all authors share."

"Whatever do you mean, Holmes?" I asked.

"Did you not discourse to me about the beauty of the snow during the last blizzard of February?" he asked. "Your turns of phrase were most poetic, and from that, I deduced that you have the descriptive ability and imagination of a writer."

I could not help feeling a sort of pride at his words, though I knew he knew nothing of literature and had nothing to compare with my own little ability. I doubted I should ever compare with the great Dickens, Trollope or Thackeray, never mind those authors of sensational literature such as Mr. Collins, yet I had not yet given up on the idea of someday writing a novel of my own.

"With that, I believe I am at last ready to retire, Watson," Holmes said. He did appear calmer, and I reflected with some pleasure that I appeared to have helped him conquer his insomnia for at least one night. "I do apologize again for the disturbance."

"Quite alright, Holmes," I said. "I shall sleep in tomorrow to make it up."


	8. Chapter 8

Prompt: Knives, from zanganito

* * *

The women of Baker Street met every Thursday afternoon for tea and biscuits. It would have been considered an informal gathering by anyone's standards; most brought their knitting with them and sat around the sitting room of whoever was hostess that week discussing their husbands, children, and for some of them, their lodgers. Each took her turn hosting their little gathering, with the lone exception of Mrs. Hudson of 221a, after they had all agreed that the constant interruptions by various ill-dressed people, the too-frequent smell of noxious chemicals and the ever present noise emanating from 221b made their meetings impossible.

Mrs. Hudson was the first to admit that she was rather glad not to have to host her neighbors anymore. If she told the truth, she had not enjoyed these weekly meetings while her husband, Tom, had been alive, feeling that she spent enough time dealing with washing, sewing, darning and cooking to want to discuss it with her neighbors when she had a brief reprieve. But this, like so many other things, had changed when he had suddenly passed. Mrs. Hudson's neighbors had kept her in a steady supply of casseroles and cakes, as well as providing many ready shoulders to cry on and some truly sound financial advice. She was not the only woman on the street who needed to take in lodgers to maintain her independence, and had it not been for Mrs. Turner in 223, she would not have formed the idea that she could be a landlady in the first place.

So with the loss of her husband Mrs. Hudson not only gained two lodgers but the firm friendship of her neighbors, and found she enjoyed meeting them weekly. She did, of course, feel a special kinship with those women who, like herself, had lodgers to look after instead of (or in some unhappy cases, in addition to) husbands. Though her life was still dominated by cooking, sewing, darning and washing, Mrs. Hudson found that doing such tasks for lodgers who paid her for them was a sight better than being expected to do them for free for a husband. However much she had loved dear Tom, she could see the inequality now better than she had then, though it was a hard won lesson that had cost too much.

"Martha, did you hear me?" Mrs. Hudson looked up from her mending, a waistcoat of Dr. Watson's that he'd managed to tear a frightful snag in while on a chase through an abandoned warehouse (her lodgers rarely told her of their adventures but she read the papers and could put two and two together, thank you). Mrs. Edwards, who lived across the street from Mrs. Hudson in 220, was looking at her expectantly. "I said they're having a sale on beef at Mr. Grant's, the butcher."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes does like a steak. I shall have to go find a decent cut," Mrs. Hudson said. Mr. Holmes's appetite often disappeared on cases, and was nonexistent when he was bored without one. She had become an inventive cook in an effort to tempt him to eat, though at first she had only done so because she could not stand to see Dr. Watson look so worried. That was before she had become quite as fond of her eccentric lodger as she was now.

"Jeremy picked one up for me this morning," Mrs. Jenkins, who was hosting this week in 213, said. She sounded exasperated and added, "Though we've never had enough for a good set of knives, and I don't know how he means me to carve it with this." She held up a small bread knife. The other women exchanged glances. They had their opinions of Mr. Jenkins' cheapness and tendency to believe he was right about everything when he was usually wrong, opinions his wife told them every week she secretly shared. Tom had not been like that, but Mrs. Hudson knew too many who were, and she thanked her lucky stars that while Mr. Holmes often acted as if he knew everything, he was at least usually right about it.

"I've seen a bread knife do a bit of damage," Mrs. Hudson said, squinting as she finished off the repair to Dr. Watson's waistcoat. "The serrated edge is quite strong and if you cut the meat thinly you should find it easy to prepare. A knife just like that did a decent job of Dr. Watson's arm only recently."

Thirteen women stared at her in silence. Mrs. Hudson's cheeks grew warm. She had had Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson as her lodgers for so long now that she sometimes forgot that having lodgers did not necessarily mean having to deal with knife wounds and late-night investigations that ran the risk of injury or even death. "Though I've a good steak knife you can borrow if you like," she added. Then she thought better of it. "Actually, perhaps you should not. I recall now Mr. Holmes brought it with him to St. Bart's the last time he conducted experiments there and it's certainly no longer fit for use. I shall have to replace it." _He_ would have to replace it, she thought. He had been most decent so far about replacing any of her belongings he may have inadvertently destroyed.

"Why should that matter?" Mrs. Trent from 216 asked.

"He conducts his experiments in the morgue," Mrs. Turner from 223 said matter-of-factly. She, as Mrs. Hudson's next-door neighbor, knew a bit more of the dealings at 221b than the others. Mrs. Hudson hid a smile as Mrs. Trent and Mrs. Jenkins both looked properly horrified. Mrs. Hudson, however, had long ago begun to consider a day at St. Bart's as one of the better ways Mr. Holmes could spend his time.

"He says it's best for cutting through bone," Mrs. Hudson said nonchalantly.

"Martha, please!" old Mrs. Hubbard of 210 said, looking scandalized. "You may be used to such goings-on but this is a _respectable_ house!"

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows at the collective drawing of breath. It had stopped bothering her long ago whether she was considered "respectable" or not. An insult was not an insult if the one being "insulted" did not consider it as such, and Mrs. Hubbard's opinion did not matter to her in the slightest. The old bat (as Mrs. Hudson had once heard one of Mr. Holmes's Irregulars call her) was only included because as the oldest woman on the street they felt they couldn't very well leave her out. "Are you saying I am not respectable?" she asked innocently. "Mr. Holmes may have his faults but I daresay your husband has not been offered a knighthood recently?" That shut Mrs. Hubbard up quick, and Mrs. Hudson saw more than a few of her other neighbors smile. Mr. Holmes had generated more goodwill than he knew, though perhaps that was more due to Dr. Watson's willingness to make house calls the length of Baker Street at any hour of the day or night. Then, remembering, Mrs. Hudson reached into her pocket and pulled out the small dagger she now always carried. "Here, Molly, borrow this," she said. "It's quite strong enough to butcher whatever slab of beef your husband brought home."

Mrs. Jenkins's eyes flew open. "Do you really carry this at all times?" she asked.

"Mr. Holmes insists," Mrs. Hudson said seriously. She did not say it was a result of an attack on the house in the early days, when he had made some rough enemies but not yet had the reputation that cloaked all of Baker Street in safety. Both her lodgers, upon finding her locked in her own pantry while they were out, had insisted she take precautions. But there was no reason to scare her neighbors by relaying the story, when in reality they lived on the safest street in London thanks to him.

"But do you know how to use it?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, her voice growing quiet in awe.

"Certainly," Mrs. Hudson said. "I'm not a natural but I'm comforted in knowing I should be able to wield it if needed."

"I suppose Mr. Holmes taught you himself?" Mrs. Edwards asked.

"Goodness, no," Mrs. Hudson said. "He's fair with a knife in his hands, but better with a sword. No, it was Dr. Watson who taught me to use it. Apparently learning to wield a knife passes the time for our soldiers in Afghanistan."

The looks she received told Mrs. Hudson that her neighbors, who had previously been under the impression that she only had one of the worst tenants in the city, now believed she had the great misfortune to have the worst _two._

They could go on believing that, if they wanted. It was her quite literal good fortune not to. Not only was very fond of the Doctor and Mr. Holmes, but they now paid her a good three times what the rooms were worth monthly, which was really only fair considering how often she had to replace the wallpaper to cover up the bullet holes.


	9. Chapter 9

Prompt: Policeman's Ball, from SheWhoScrawls

A/N: This is my first attempt writing anything from Mary's POV, and I am still getting a feel for how she should sound.

* * *

It was spring in 1882, a mere few months after our marriage, when the maid brought me the day's post. As newlyweds, our post was often extraordinarily uninteresting, a fact which John seemed quite pleased about, and informed me was a result of six years of either being forced to wait to open his own post until Mr. Holmes determined it did not contain anything dangerous, or having it already opened before he got to it. My husband would simply smile and say that sometimes the boring minutiae of daily life were quite a rest after living with Mr. Holmes.

Today, however, a handsome envelope arrived, trimmed in gold, which I opened with interest. "Look," I said to John, seated by the fire with the newspaper. "We have been invited to the Scotland Yard's Annual Policeman's Ball." I was gratified to be invited, as John had not been involved in as many of Mr. Holmes's cases since our marriage, and those few were often private affairs in which the police were never involved.

"Oh, yes," John said with a smile. "Holmes and I are invited every year. I must say, it is an exercise in magnanimity on their part to keep us on the list." At my quizzical look, he explained, "Holmes detests the entire thing. He never ceases complaining from the moment the invitation arrives until we've arrived home."

"Really?" I asked. Mr. Holmes was, to me, a gentleman of the highest order, never any less than chivalrous and well-mannered, though John had told me of his more eccentric habits. "Why do you continue to go?"

"Well, because I enjoy it," John said, as if it was obvious. "And in the end, it is good business to keep in the Yard's relative good graces. They bring a lot of business his way, though he will never admit it." This sound financial attitude from my husband surprised me. He had happily handed over control of his finances to me, when I determined that he had no head for money and that I should be better able to keep us out of debt. I had no idea about Mr. Holmes's finances, but my impression was that he hardly seemed aware of such mundane details such as being paid for his work.

"Well, I for one am looking forward to it," I declared. I had never had the chance to attend a ball, as I had gone straight from boarding school into service as a governess, and had never been out in society much. "Do you think my grey gown will be appropriate?" I had only one nice dress, aside from my wedding gown, and it had already seen much use on outings to the theater.

"Holmes is the only one aside from myself who has seen you wear it," John said. "And he cares not a jot what people wear. If he could attend the ball in his dressing gown, I believe he would."

* * *

"I detest the Policeman's Ball," Mr. Holmes declared, about a month later, as he tugged at his dress collar in front of the mirror in our corridor. I had not seen him dressed so formally since our wedding, and he bore hardly a resemblance to the languid figure lying on the settee in his dressing gown my husband was more familiar with.

"You look very nice, Mary," John said, coming down the stairs in his own finery, ignoring Mr. Holmes's complaints. I blushed and thanked him; he had seen me in this same dress many times before, yet he complimented me as if it was brand new. Though I had added some flowers to my hair in an attempt to appear more in tune with the spring weather. He looked handsome himself, in his finest suit and a sharply polished black walking stick, due to the dampness outside. "Shall we go?" he asked.

"Let us get it over with," Mr. Holmes sighed, standing aside and opening the door of the cab for me as my husband gave me a hand up. He sighed impatiently, ignoring us until our arrival at the venue, though John was much too used to this to mind.

The Policeman's Ball was held in a small hall just outside the center of London. It did take me a moment to recognize those men I was familiar with, such as Detective Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, unused to seeing them in finery. I knew that this would be considered a poor event by those out more in society; even Mrs. Forrester would likely had found much to be desired with the decorations, the food and the other ladies' gowns, yet to me, who had never attended a society event, it was a tad overwhelming. I realized how few people I knew and took John's arm, ostensibly to steady him (he was feeling the dampness already, I could tell, and was leaning on his stick rather heavily) but also to give myself a reason to remain with someone I knew.

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" My husband was hailed almost immediately by someone whom I did not know, and after introductions, was soon drawn into a discussion about some article in the _Lancet_.

"I am guessing that man is a police surgeon?" I whispered to Mr. Holmes, after we had stood around awkwardly for what felt like too long a time.

He nodded, though I caught a glimpse of approval in his keen eyes that I had deduced this myself. "Dr. Cooper," he said. "The man despises me. You see, I once proved him wrong about the death of a murder suspect. He declared it was poison when it was actually a very unique strain of malaria." He paused for a moment. "I suspect Watson would say that is not an appropriate subject of discussion for a ball."

I laughed aloud, and I saw a few people turn to look at us. "I am a soldier's daughter and a doctor's wife, Mr. Holmes. I have a stronger stomach than you might expect," I said. "Come, they look as if they will be occupied for a while." He appeared relieved to not have to stand around awkwardly waiting for John, which I had a guess was what he ordinarily did at this event. "You are not usually so reticent, Mr. Holmes," I said, noticing his eyes traveling around the room, searching for a distraction. Reclusive as he was, he had been the soul of charm at our wedding, and a frequent guest at our home since. He was also generous with the various tickets he had to concerts and other performances, and John and I had spent many a happy evening in a theatre, where Mr. Holmes's deductions about our fellow theatre-goers, delivered under his breath so that only John and I could hear him, were often more entertaining than the performance. "Would you not usually be deducing everyone here?" I asked teasingly.

Mr. Holmes sighed, turning his sharp gaze on me. His boredom was palpable. "There is little to deduce when one already knows all the attendees," he said. He pointed out one woman to me. "That is Gregson's wife. You see she has recently given birth, and that she really wanted a girl but has had another boy. Next to her is Mrs. Lestrade. The two are fast friends, though I'm sure their husbands are unhappy about this, as they cannot stand each other." Indeed, Lestrade and Gregson were at opposite ends of the room, with entirely different groups of people, yet they periodically shot each other dark looks, as well as looking askance at their happily chatting wives.

"Forgive me, I was rather caught up," John said, arriving at last. "Come, let us find our table."

"I hope they have not seated us with the Police Commissioner this year," Mr. Holmes grumbled.

"That was supposed to be an honor," John reminded him gently. We made our way through the tables, occasionally stopping to talk to someone either John or Mr. Holmes knew. A few of the officers introduced their wives to me, and while everyone was very pleasant and friendly, they appeared to all know one another already, and I found myself unsure of how to get myself included. Perhaps I should have had better luck if I was not already known to be connected with Mr. Holmes, whose poor opinions of their husbands' abilities were well known to all.

Our table was in the center of the room (with no sign of the Commissioner in sight) and we took our seats earlier than many others, who were still milling about. John was immediately hailed by some other fellow who Mr. Holmes described as Lieutenant Backes, a young beat officer who was rather in awe of him. After he had excused himself to talk to the young man for what seemed an exorbitant amount of time, I amused myself in observing the rest of the attendees. I saw many of the officers in attendance eyeing Mr. Holmes in apparently worry as they passed us, no doubt due to his naturally intimidating nature, which was successfully keeping all but those officers who knew him well from approaching us. I did hear, however, more than one mutter under their breaths as they passed about "amateurs" and "charlatans," and I glanced at Mr. Holmes to see if he would take offense.

He read my unasked question in my expression and smiled. "It is of no consequence to me what they think of me. I have proved them each wrong on many an occasion and they all know it. No doubt they shall come running when they find themselves at a loss, regardless of what they say here." He did seem to take particular enjoyment in the idea of showing them up in the future, and I stifled a giggle in my napkin.

John had finally returned, muttering an apology, when the music began. The dance floor was soon full of couples. My foot began tapping in spite of itself, and I saw Mr. Holmes almost unconsciously nodding in time to the music. "Good, he approves," John whispered to me. "Two years ago the players were off-key and he did not stop telling everyone who would listen about it all night." I laughed, and John gave his friend a knowing look.

As the couples whirled around the room, I found myself counting along with the steps, and I caught a brief look between Mr. Holmes and my husband, before Mr. Holmes stood up and held out his hand to me. In complete surprise, I took it, and he led me to the dance floor. "How did you know I wanted to dance?" I asked.

"Your foot," he answered. "It was tapping in perfect time to the music."

"I learned at boarding school, and I enjoyed my lessons very much," I said. "Though I've had little chance to use them since." There was no call for dancing when taking charge of two children under the age of six, and I had all but given it up after our wedding. John had informed me that while his leg did not normally trouble him except in damp weather, and that even the steady pattern of running after Mr. Holmes presented no problem to him, the balance and rhythm of dancing while leading a partner was now beyond his capabilities. He had said this cheerfully, saying that he had never been a great dancer to begin with. Accordingly, we had ensured that our wedding dance was slow and deliberate, and had not danced together since. "I had no idea you could dance, Mr. Holmes," I said.

"It is part of every gentry boy's education," he said, and I confess I had momentarily forgotten that Mr. Holmes's family were landed, though not very highly ranked. "I have found it helpful," he continued, "Not only in developing a sense of rhythm and timing that is most useful for a musician, but a surprising number of cases require one to go undercover at a society event."

"So you must therefore know how to dance," I finished. He was really quite good, I thought. Though we had not danced together before (he had refused the traditional dance he was owed as best man, so that it would not appear odd that my husband and I danced together only once at our own wedding), he led me through the steps effortlessly and never once stepped on my toes. I saw a few of the Yarders give us odd looks, and I suspected this was the first time Mr. Holmes had ever led any woman out on the dance floor at the Policeman's Ball.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said, when the dance was finished. "I enjoyed that very much."

"As did I, Mrs. Watson," Mr. Holmes said, sweeping a bow that seemed to take everyone by surprise, for a few people suddenly burst into applause, and I realized they had been watching the whole time.

"I doubt they had any idea you were so graceful," I said to him. "Though it really is no surprise."

"It should not be," he answered. "They have each watched me balance on roofs and scale up buildings by the gutter, and they all know of my interest in music. It is not truly that difficult to deduce that I am capable of executing a competent waltz." He gave me a look that said all he needed to about his opinion of Scotland Yard, and I was still laughing when he led me back to our table.


	10. Chapter 10

Prompt: Library, from Wordwielder

A/N: First, again, bear with me because my Holmes POV is very out of practice and I've never written him at college before (which is when this story is set). Second - this prompt was HEAVEN SENT to me, THANK YOU! I'm actually a librarian in real life and I spent hours picturing imagining what Holmes would be like if he came up to me at the reference desk and came to the very quick conclusion that he'd be a very annoying know-it-all who would constantly return books in horrible condition. So this is partially inspired by that.

* * *

While I have been known to spend days not moving from my bed in the absence of anything to do, being unable to do so when I _did_ have something I wanted to do was most inconvenient. I had left the results of a chemical experiment unwritten for over a week since what I was terming "the incident," and another long series of notes I was to turn into a paper for the only chemistry class I had managed to fit into my schedule. This, of course, did not include the coursework for those classes which had no practical application to my own course of study, yet the university insisted we sit for anyway; namely, lessons in Latin, English, History and Classics. Well, those were not such a bother, as I rarely attended these lectures and handed in only enough of the assigned work not to lose my place at university and then promptly deleted anything I had inadvertently learned from my brain-attic. I may not have known yet what it was I wanted to do with my life, other than that it did not involve translating dusty Latin poetry, but I knew what I would not likely need to know in future.

I pushed myself out of bed, pleased to note that the ankle which had sustained the unfortunate dog-induced frostbite was now at last able to take my weight, though it still smarted fiercely. No matter. I was determined to make it to the library to finish the report of my chemical experimentation, and had managed to hobble to the door when I opened it to reveal Victor Trevor. He had visited each day since he and I had inadvertently met, thanks to his pup's overly friendly nature and disregard for freezing temperatures. I was still as yet unsure what to make of him - other than that he was the son of a landed gentleman, was taking the general course of study most men of his class did, with its focus on Classics and history, that he enjoyed shooting and fishing, obviously kept a dog, and had a generally optimistic view of life in combination with a certain temper he kept under restraint. All this I had learned while he was endeavouring to pry his dog off my ankle, he and I having not discussed much other than my recovery and the weather during my convalescence. Yet he had faithfully continued to check on my recovery, even staying longer each day. While I ordinarily did not invite companionship, I was so laid up with little to do that I found it difficult to turn him away. Now, at least, I should be able to return to my usual solitary ways.

"Holmes!" he said in some surprise as he saw me stumbling out the door of my rooms. "Wherever are you going?"

"The library," I said, hanging onto the wall for support and nearly dropping my books. "I have left my work abandoned for far too long."

"You really ought to be in bed still," Trevor said, catching my books and taking hold of my arm to steady me.

"I am fine," I said forcefully, yet something in Trevor's hearty and friendly nature refused to believe me and he continued to see me toward the stairs.

"Come now, Holmes, if you really must go to the library, at least allow me to see you there," Trevor said. "You must see you cannot make the stairs on your own."

He was, most annoyingly, correct. I held onto my chemistry books and had no choice but to allow him to take my arm to assist me down the stairs. I so dislike having to depend on others (as my brother will surely tell anyone who asks) that I immediately turned to say goodbye, only to find him continuing to walk my way. "I have some work I need to do as well," he said, shrugging. "We may as well study together."

Well, this was a pretty problem. My study habits were reclusive, and the only reason I used the library was because I was unable to fit a chemistry library the size I required in my rooms. When I was caught up in a problem, I was not likely to talk, sometimes for days on end, and often found even the smallest noises from others disturbing. Trevor, in his hearty, energetic way, was not the quiet sort and I doubted I should get any work done if he insisted on studying with me. Yet I had no way of intimating this without insulting him, and even I had the sense that a man who had the decency to look in my recovery daily for ten days did not deserve what Mycroft called "the full force of my black moods." I merely grunted and headed on to the library, where I might find that all the tables were taken and we should have to separate. This, I thought to myself, is why I had not cultivated any friendships in my life, and why I had not intended to do so at college, when all the other men seemed to spend most of their time in the alehouses and neglecting their studies in favor of attending rugby matches. Yet even I am not clairvoyant, and could not predict that a dog should freeze itself to my ankle, thus pushing Victor Trevor into my path and apparently, leaving him there for the foreseeable future

We arrived at the library to find, naturally, a free table large enough for both of us and all our books. I immediately dropped my things onto the table and hobbled over to the librarian, handing her an extensive list of books I needed which caused her to raise her eyebrows. No matter. The staff here was quite used to me and my sometimes unusual requests, so I simply made my way back to our table and buried my nose in my results until I heard someone clear their throat. I can only assume it was the librarian standing behind the towering pile of books that appeared to be floating next to me, and I thanked her, shoving aside my papers so she might put them down. "That is quite a lot of books, Holmes," Trevor remarked. "What is it you go in for, anyway?"

"Chemistry," I said, writing my formulae furiously. It was a wonder I remembered them after ten days. "And I have much to catch up on," I added pointedly.

Trevor shrugged good-naturedly, and I made a note that he seemed not to mind my occasional sharp moods. He got out his own work and was soon buried in what turned out to be Latin translations. His occasional grunts and exhalations told me that it was not his favorite subject, and I smirked. Nor had it been mine. "Holmes, you did not already have your Introductory Latin lecture, did you?" Trevor asked, sounding in some desperation.

I repressed the sigh that arose at being interrupted. "I did, last term," I said. "Though I do not remember anything about it in the slightest," I added, lest he think I could be of any help.

Trevor appeared quite taken aback at this and I smiled. "I do not allow myself to remember anything that is not useful to me," I said. "A dead language hardly counts as such, in my estimation, don't you agree?"

Trevor burst out laughing, to my surprise, for I had never made someone laugh except in mockery. "I think so, yet for some reason they insist on our taking it." He put down his pen, evidently looking for an excuse to ignore his work. "What is it you intend to do with your degree?"

At this, I must admit he had truly presented me with a thorny problem. I had not the slightest idea what I wanted to do with my life at this point. I had entered university intending to become a chemist, and while I still greatly enjoyed the experimentation and research, I had very little desire to teach classes of students. I was, even at this time, beginning to question the use of a university education to me, as so much of what I was required to take was so utterly useless. "I do not know yet," I said. "And you?" I asked out of politeness, though I already knew. He had already told me he was his father's only son and therefore was set to inherit his father's land. As a second son, I was not so fortunate (although perhaps I was, as I had no interest in maintaining property, and even Mycroft, as the eldest, was intending to sell off the estate as soon as he came into it).

"What does any man do with it?" Trevor said. "I am expected to go into law, as my father has done."

"He is a judge in Norfolk, is he not?" I asked absently. These little pronouncements were, even then, so unconsciously done on my part that I was quite surprised by Trevor's look of astonishment.

"How did you know that?" he asked.

"It was quite easy," I said. "Your accent identifies you as being a Norfolk man, and there is a letter sticking out from your pocket bearing the partial return address "Trevor, the letters "rthouse," Norfolk." Obviously the sender's name is Trevor, therefore a relative, most likely your father as you share a name, the letters "rthouse" most likely refers to a courthouse, especially if the letter does indeed come from your father. I had already determined from your dress and bearing that you come from a landowning family, so I was able to deduce that your father serves as a judge in the courthouses of Norfolk."

Trevor stared at me in a shocked way that had become very familiar to me since entering college - I confess this had come as a surprise to me, as such deductions were common between Mycroft and I at home, and neither of us thought it an especially unique ability. The few times I had used my deductive abilities in college, however, had usually resulted in everyone becoming quite embarrassed and angry with me. Trevor, however, was looking at me in something close to awe. "That is remarkable," he said.

"On the contrary, it is pure simplicity," I said. I finished my chemistry report, and turned to my English and history work. I ordinarily had little patience for such useless claptrap; today, when my ankle still pained me, I had even less. I had many other things I should rather be doing, even if they were not directly related to my already unusual course of study. "Excuse me," I said to Trevor, writing up another list of books for the librarian to find. I believe I saw her cringe when she saw me approach, though she sighed with admirable patience and went off to get me my items. She soon returned with armfuls of books on musical notation and medieval chant, giving me a dark look as she added them to the already tottering piles of chemistry books. Trevor merely laughed, though there was by now hardly any room left for his own work on our table.

"You have much of the whole library there, Holmes," he said, seeming to find me much more interesting than his Latin translation (well, that is no surprise).

"I have wide interests," I said, beginning to make notes on the Italian chant style of the seventh century.

"She did not look fond of you," Trevor said in a whisper, and I looked up to see the librarian giving me a dark look from where she was talking to her companion.

I merely smiled. "I am not a favorite of theirs. You know I am no longer allowed the privilege of checking out books?" This, I considered unfair. It certainly was not my fault that I had spilled corrosive chemicals on more than one book as I conducted experiments so that the pages were eaten away, nor that I had forgotten another in my breast pocket during fencing practice and accordingly had it skewered. Though I was to blame for the notes I scribbled in the margins of music books as I composed - seemingly something I was unable to stop myself from doing.

Trevor, however, laughed heartily as I explained this. Would nothing drive away the man's good spirits? But to my surprise, I found myself laughing along, and was surprisingly gratified when he offered to use his borrowing privileges to borrow books for me.

Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to have a friend. My mood was certainly much improved, and I had actually managed to accomplish some of my work. No, it could not be such a bad thing at all - though with any luck Victor Trevor would be the only one. I certainly did not want to start cultivating a social life. What Mycroft would say!


	11. Chapter 11

Prompt: Pirates, from SheWhoScrawls

A/N: So this kind of turned into a casefic, which I wasn't really expecting. I sort of went a different route with the pirates prompt too.

* * *

By the spring of 1896, my friend Sherlock Holmes's fame was unmatched, thanks to the news of his return from what all had believed to be his grave and his victory over Professor Moriarty, as well as some extremely high-profile cases that had been chronicled in newspapers in the two years since. There were times he and I could hardly walk through a park without his being recognized by an admirer. While always polite to those who approached, I knew he considered this a breach of his privacy, and I was well aware that in his profession, such a breach could be dangerous. After the relative success of my first two novels, I had, in fact, only published serialized stories of my friend's adventures during the time I believed him dead for this very reason, and stopped immediately upon learning the truth. I promised him I would not begin again until I had his permission. For his part, he assured me I should have it as soon as it could not affect either his clients or our own safety.

For all Holmes's fame, however, fewer recognized or even noticed myself as the author, which was as I had intended it. Aside from my necessary presence in each story as the narrator, I had in each case minimized my already small role so that my friend should be the center. I had not expected any real literary accolades, for I knew that my abilities as a writer could not compare with those great names whose works I frequently found myself engrossed in. I was content to hear that people knew of and admired Holmes thanks to reading my stories, for it meant I had achieved my goal.

So it was with no small amount of shock that I happened to pass by a newsstand one day after my rounds and saw my friend's name in the headline. Thinking that perhaps he had finished some investigation, or worse, that something terrible had befallen him, I picked it up and began to read.

NEW SHERLOCK HOLMES STORY

THE CASE OF THE CAREENING BALLOONIST

I realized with growing anger that some unscrupulous fellow must have taken advantage of my absence from the _Strand_ to write and sell his own false story of Holmes! I took in the story, some nonsense about an evil scientist stealing a hot-air balloon which ended with Holmes and the villain engaged in a fencing match a mile off the ground. Preposterous! Furthermore, it was poorly written with grammatical errors and Holmes was not at all like I had painstakingly written his character. I believe I hurried back to Baker Street without even paying for the rag it was published in - some new magazine I had never heard of before, which no doubt had not asked many questions about why they, and not the _Strand,_ were the recipient of the first new Holmes story in three years.

As I walked, I continued to fume at the as yet unnamed criminal who had done this. What if Holmes had seen or heard of it? He would think I had gone back on my promise to him, and this upset me more than knowing that someone had impersonated me to make some smalI amount of money off of Holmes's fame. Worse, what of the public? They would believe that this caricature was Sherlock Holmes, and he would become a laughingstock across England. I entered Baker Street in a storm of fury, taking the stairs two at a time. "Watson?" Holmes asked from where he was seated on the floor with what appeared to be the entire contents of his directory in front of him. "What is the matter? You look very distressed."

"I cannot believe it," I said. "Someone is _pirating_ my stories!" I threw the magazine on the floor in front of him, where he examined it closely and began to read. I watched him anxiously. "I am telling you, Holmes, I did not write that. I would never go back on my word to you."

"Of course you would not, Watson," Holmes said, calmly folding up the magazine when he had finished with it. "I can hardly imagine anyone would believe you had written that. It is utterly preposterous and badly written besides."

I was about to answer when I stopped and looked at him in some surprise. He had done little else but disparage the stories I had written of him, which was one of the reasons I had stopped publishing them until I believed him dead. He smiled at my surprise. "Come, Watson, my dislike of those adventures you publish have nothing to do with your _writing_ , but with the nature and style of the tale to begin with. Certainly you are a decent writer, or else no one should be interested in these little problems you write up in the first place. Had this fellow been my biographer, I daresay no one would be reading them and I should be as poor as a church mouse."

My anger disappeared with what I believed was the first compliment he had ever paid my writing. "I must contact the _Strand_ ," I said. "They will think I reneged on our agreement. They are to have first refusal of any new stories I write." The problem seemed to grow in my mind until it seemed almost insurmountable, though I had seen and even been involved in thornier cases in my time with Holmes. They were not so personal. "I wish I knew who had done this," I said. "I hardly expected any pirates to seek to profit off of my stories."

"There are precious few laws about this sort of theft," Holmes said. "Very few of these literary pirates serve any time in prison for it either. It would seem to me that the loss of a man's livelihood should be treated similarly, if not as seriously, as the loss of a man's life." He sprang to his feet and put on his coat. "Well, come on, Watson, if we are to find out who has done this we shall have to get started." He pointed to the address of the publisher of the magazine. "We shall start there."

I followed him, beginning to hope that we might find an answer. Surely Holmes would figure out who had done this, though even I associated him with crimes more grotesque and dangerous than with those of paper and money. Still, simply because he didn't usually solve crimes of this nature did not mean that he couldn't. He hailed a cab and after arriving we went into the building that housed the magazine's offices. "Good afternoon, gentlemen, how may I assist you?" a young man seated at a desk near the door greeted us.

"You may tell us where you received this story from," Holmes said, in his most masterful manner, causing the young man to quail under his gaze. The rest of the office had gone silent.

"I-I'm afraid I cannot tell you that," the young man stammered.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself," Holmes said. "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, and _this_ ," he threw the magazine onto the desk, "is not a true story of me. You have been advertising falsely and paying an impersonator. Now, who sent you this story?"

The young man now looked terrified, and I realized he truly had not realized they had a false story on their hands. "I didn't know it wasn't real, I swear! It was sent to us; it came in this envelope!" He searched through his drawer until he found what he was looking for. Holmes snatched it from his hands and showed it to me.

"The return address says 'Dr. John H. Watson, 221b Baker Street,'" I read aloud.

Holmes glared at the envelope. "Obviously my address is an easy one to use as a return, and your name is as well-known as mine, Watson." He studied the stamp, then crowed aloud in delight. "Look, Watson! It is stamped with the post office it was sent from. We shall have him yet." He hurried out of the office with the envelope still in his hand, leaving the young man at the desk dumbstruck.

"Obviously we shall recall all the issues with that story," the young man said to me. "I am so sorry, Dr. Watson."

I was not in a forgiving mood, yet it was obvious that the magazine had not had any idea they had been sent a false story and must have been delighted at their good fortune. They were, at least, doing the honorable thing by removing all the issues from print, no doubt at great cost to themselves. "Thank you," I said, before following Holmes outside, where he was waiting impatiently for me.

"Hurry, Watson, the post office will close soon," he said. The post office in question was only a few blocks away, and immediately upon entering Holmes marched straight up to the desk, ignoring the queue of people. He smiled in the charming way he had when he wanted to ingratiate himself, and after a conversation with the clerk that seemed to be mostly about the state of the roads, he turned to me, looking please. "The man who sent this was apparently complaining about some road work that was being done near his lodgings which had caused him to tear his trouser leg, and wore a dirty blue bowler hat. According to my friend there, he mentioned that he usually stops at an alehouse before returning home, and the only place I know of that is undergoing road repairs is Clancy Street. I wager that if we find an alehouse there, we shall find your pirate."

Naturally, we hurried in that direction, stopping only to send a telegram, and reached the alehouse just as men were beginning to enter as the workday ended. "Keep a lookout, Watson," Holmes said. "Remember, you are looking for a man in a blue bowler hat."

"He might be wearing a different hat," I said as I ordered us drinks, so that we might appear natural.

Holmes shook his head. "The clerk in the post office remarked on how dirty it was. No man wears a dirty hat if he has another. Ah, I believe that is our man." I turned to look at the table in the corner where a small man with a dirty blue bowler hat was scowling at his glass. I had barely looked over before Holmes was taking a seat opposite him. "Good evening," Holmes said.

It was obvious that the pirate recognized him, and that he knew why Holmes was there. His face was frozen with sudden fear, which only increased as I approached. "I-I only wanted the money," he whispered frantically. "I knew any magazine would pay well for a Holmes story!"

"So you decided to write one yourself," Holmes said. "Did you never think the true author would notice a published story he had not written and return to claim his rights?"

"I-" the man stammered, with another terrified glance at me.

"Or that the subject would object to being used as a character in a poorly written story without permission?" Holmes asked, his gaze growing darker.

"I-I am sorry!" the man said. "They say you're a gentleman, Mr. Holmes. Have mercy!"

"I leave you to the police," Holmes said, getting up exactly as Inspector Bradstreet entered with a couple of his men. "Ah, Bradstreet, there you are. I see you received my telegram."

"I did, and we'll be sure this fellow doesn't go around publishing anything else for years to come," the inspector said, pushing the pirate out in front of him.

Holmes sniffed. "Well, Watson, I imagine you shall have to be on the lookout for other pirates, now that you have made a name for yourself as an author. You know they say imitation is the highest form of flattery."

I decided that this was another example of my friend's rather strange sense of humor and accordingly ignored it. "Thank you, Holmes," I said. "I could not stand that anyone should think you and I were anything at all like what he had written." Then I grew more somber and said in embarrassment, "Though I am afraid, Holmes, that I cannot pay your your fee at this time." I was, to my shame, in the throes of financial necessity again, and my friend at this time in his career charged a princely sum in those cases where he did not waive it entirely.

Holmes merely looked at me, with the rare look of confusion upon his face. "Your fee as a private consultant, Holmes! I have engaged your services for a case," I said in some exasperation.

Holmes surprised me by laughing aloud. "For goodness sake, Watson," he said. "You shall never have to pay for the services of a detective. Rest assured I will always waive my fee for you."

"Oh," I said. "Well, thank you, Holmes. Let us hope, though, that this is the last time I shall have to take advantage of that offer."

* * *

A/N: This was partially inspired by an incident that happened to the Bronte sisters, when Anne Bronte's publisher tried to sell her second novel, _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_ as being by the author of _Jane Eyre_ , essentially saying that Charlotte and Anne Bronte were the same person. That kind of morphed into a more straightforward case of stealing someone else's idea and work.


	12. Chapter 12

Prompt: Scotland Yard's seasonal shenangians, from BookRookie12

A/N: This got away from me a bit, and I tried very hard to bring it back under control. Hopefully I succeeded.

* * *

Any workplace were men were constantly jostling for position was bound to be beset by rivalries, and Scotland Yard was no exception. Rivalries between individual officers were really the least of the problems of the force, Lestrade thought defensively, after the third time in as many months that he and Gregson had been called before the Superintendent to account for themselves. The divisions ran up against each other in the course of duty, and it was only natural that they should compete to see who had caught the most burglars, run down the most criminals, or solved the most murders. It was Lestrade's own Westminster Division that had won these unofficial contests the last few years, though it was due in no small part to the fact that the world's only consulting detective happened to live in their district. It still counted for them, Lestrade pointed out to Gregson, the two having agreed to call a truce to ensure that Chelsea and Marylebone divisions didn't come close to overtaking them.

This year, though, the competition threatened to turn into open war, as the new Commissioner had unwisely, in Lestrade's opinion, decided to offer Christmas bonuses to the division with the most arrests and most cases closed. "He'll have half of London behind bars before the season's over," the little Inspector grumbled, looking through his unsolved cases for the day.

"Still, it'd be nice to get that bonus," Bradstreet said as they headed out to find a particularly recalcitrant witness.

"You can't really think you'll get that bonus!" Lestrade turned around to stand face-to-face with a massive brick of a man standing in their way. "Kensington's got it in the bag!"

Lestrade, who had been completely uninterested in claiming the bonus until this very moment, pulled himself up to his full height and managed to look the Kensington giant directly in the middle of his chest. "We've had seventeen murders solved this year. _Seventeen!_ Have you even reached double digits?"

The huge Kensington officer merely chuckled. "That might be your number but everyone knows you don't solve your own in Westminster. You've got that Holmes fellow on standby, haven't you?"

Lestrade bristled, in no small part because they _didn't_ have Holmes on standby. They really only called him as a last resort; he simply turned up of his own accord the rest of the time. Unfortunately, Bradstreet held him back. "Come on, we'll get an eighteenth today if we're lucky," he said. "Everyone knows not enough even happens in Kensington for them to have a chance." Later that day, when Lestrade closed their eighteenth murder, with no assistance from troublesome consulting detectives, he was inclined to agree.

The weeks went by and the Christmas decorations went up. Lestrade usually paid no attention to the holiday and only noticed the decorations when a very large Christmas tree appeared in such close proximity to his desk that he couldn't get up. "What the blazes is this doing here?" he asked, pushing aside branches so he could at least see in his own office.

"Our turn to host the Christmas party, sir," one of the young constables said, sticking his head around. "Can't have Southwark beat us. Last year they had live doves!"

Lestrade groaned. The Christmas party. "We're not inviting him, are we?" he asked. They'd so far avoided inviting their resident amateur to the Christmas party only because they'd never hosted it.

"Well, he is the reason we've won, isn't he?" Gregson said.

"So they hate us already and they'll hate us even more once he announces to the world who's lost all his money gambling or who's got marriage problems," Lestrade said.

"Then we'll never have to host the party again and everyone will love him for it," Gregson said, and everyone laughed. "You can make him behave, can't you, Lestrade?"

"Why is it up to me?" Lestrade asked.

Gregson shrugged. "You know him better than we do."

Lestrade highly doubted anyone really knew Sherlock Holmes, even Dr. Watson. Perhaps he wouldn't come; the man was so infernally unsociable. Though this hope was quickly dashed when the invitations went out, and both Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson sent back affirmative responses. "Maybe the Doctor can make him behave," Lestrade said, though without much real hope.

Gregson seemed not to share this opinion, as he gave Lestrade an incredulous look. "You cannot be serious. You know they're like a pair of children together."

"Yes, I know, thank you!" Lestrade snapped, their truce forgotten now that the contest was won and the bonus was theirs. Annoyingly, he was right. Mr. Holmes could do no wrong in Dr. Watson's eyes, and he was unlikely to attempt to reign in his friend's behavior. If indeed, it could be done at all.

The day of the Christmas party was cold and bright, and Lestrade walked into the office to find a group of carolers stationed inside, singing a cheerful rendition of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen."

"Are they going to sing all day?" Bradstreet asked, passing by Lestrade's desk.

"I sincerely hope not; I think I might go mad," Lestrade answered. The constables were engaged all day in hanging boughs of holly on every conceivable surface, until it seemed as if they were working in a pine forest instead of an office building in the middle of London. A few of the officers from other divisions were beginning to arrive, looking around in a way that seemed very judgemental to Lestrade. _Let Southwark keep their doves_ , he thought to himself. _We solved eighteen murders._

The best thing that could be said about the Christmas party was that there were an extraordinary array of cakes. They must have bought out every bakery in Westminster, Lestrade thought approvingly, swallowing a bite quickly when he saw Dr. Watson approach. "I only wanted to thank you for the invitation," the former soldier said. "It's been a long time since I attended a party."

"Oh, it is our pleasure, Doctor," Lestrade said, completely truthfully. Dr. Watson was a very pleasant fellow, and it had become much easier to deal with Holmes once they'd taken rooms together. How much of this was due to the good Doctor's influence and how much due to the improvement in Holmes's landlady was still the subject of many roundabout conversations between the Inspectors. "Where is Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked, realizing he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen the two separated since they had taken rooms together three years previously.

"Probably boring that Inspector from Chelsea," Dr. Watson said, nodding toward a corner, where Holmes was indeed speaking very animatedly. "When I left he was discoursing about the amount of wear on various makes of gloves and how this allows one to determine...something." He smiled good-naturedly. "There are times one must tune him out."

Lestrade burst out laughing. "I suppose Inspector Chelsea will need a rescue."

"Well, the thing is, the Inspector started out by telling _me_ a very long and complicated story about his service as a supply officer in Africa," Dr. Watson said. "It was Holmes who came to my rescue." He chuckled, then they both turned around as they heard raised voices, and saw a different Inspector stalk away angrily. Holmes looked distinctly satisfied with himself.

Lestrade sighed. "I had better go find out what happened," he said, but before he made it even two steps he was accosted by the Inspector in question.

"I don't know what you're playing at here, Lestrade, but you've been letting that amateur rule your force for years now, from what I've heard. Now I don't care what you do in your own division but he's got no business telling the rest of us how to do our jobs!" The man's face was bright red, and Lestrade wondered what Holmes possibly could have said. Certainly he could be downright rude when he wanted, but rarely did anyone react like this.

"Lestrade, do tell your colleagues to calm down," Holmes said, appearing as if from nowhere at Lestrade's elbow. "This fellow is rather too enthusiastic in picking up pickpockets off the street. Do you know how many of my Irregulars I have had to bail out of his gaol?"

"Who the devil uses street Arabs to solve crimes?" the red-faced officer all but yelled in Lestrade's face.

"Perhaps if you did, you would have won the contest," Holmes said in that infuriatingly calm way he had.

Lestrade groaned aloud. "Mr. Holmes, perhaps you should give your Irregulars some sign to show that they're on an errand for you so they don't get picked up inadvertently?" he suggested, since it seemed as if neither side was willing to budge an inch on what seemed a very easily solved issue.

Holmes sniffed. "Perhaps I shall. I'm very tired of having my investigations interrupted because my assistants continually get arrested." The angry inspector humphed in disappointment at this sensible solution and disappeared, no doubt to complain about amateurs getting too big for themselves. Lestrade found it quite a nice change from when he himself did the same thing and turned to Holmes.

"How the devil did you know that there was a contest?" he asked.

"Your shoes, Inspector," Holmes answered. "New, are they not? You have recently come into money, and I happened to read about the bonus promised to the division with the highest number of arrests. It was not hard to put the two together. Incidentally, that man was obviously from Kings Cross, which explains why he was so angry."

"It does?" Lestrade asked

Holmes nodded seriously. "He was quite obviously drunk, and since I read about no fewer than twenty-five incidents this year in which a Kings Cross police officer was drunk on duty, I do believe they hold the dubious record for most intoxicated officers on duty this year."

Lestrade burst out laughing. No wonder the fellow was so angry, though he really only found it funny. "Come, Mr. Holmes, let's go find some eggnog," he said.

Perhaps it was the Christmas spirit, but he was feeling very good about having the world's only consulting detective on his side at the moment.


	13. Chapter 13

Prompt: I told you not to touch it! from Madam'zelleG

A/N: Content warning for drug use, abuse and overdose. Apologies, because I have the feeling this could have been a lighthearted prompt, but I am an angst queen and this is where my brain took me. This is specifically set right before The Devil's Foot.

* * *

In looking over my records of the time I lived with Sherlock Holmes, the early months of 1897 stand out as extraordinarily busy, though for the unhappiest of reasons. It was, as I recall, an unusually mild winter in which Scotland Yard was kept busy by a number of unique and grotesque cases for which my friend's services were continually engaged. Weeks passed by that winter during which I hardly saw him, save for a quick word as he left me at the breakfast table, often already in disguise as either a common laborer, a sea captain, and once, as a liveried footman. My own affairs were no less busy, for there was a scarlet fever epidemic which required my attendance at multiple bedsides a day. Yet still, I took note of my friend's health as I had done for so many years, noting how little he seemed to eat and how much less he was sleeping.

"I cannot stop now, Watson," Sherlock Holmes said to me, once when I dared to remonstrate him about this. "I have only to prove that my client's brother was indeed at the meeting in Southwark at the time of the murder, or else he shall hang."

I could hardly argue with such a reason, yet when that case was brought to its completion, Detective Inspector Lestrade appeared almost immediately with another. All told, I believe I saw Holmes consume no more than four meals in a two month period, and the strains of his violin echoed up the stairs for hours nightly, so that I am sure he slept hardly more than four hours any given night. "Holmes, you must stop this," I said finally, one rare day where he seemed to be without a case. "You shall ruin your health." He ignored my worry, only sighing loudly and turning to stare into the fire. "Holmes!" I said.

"I am not your patient, Doctor!" Holmes said coldly, taking me slightly aback. "Has Inspector Lestrade called? I told him to keep me informed of the result of the Chambers case."

"He has not," I said, and Holmes sighed loudly. Fearing that he would sink into one of his black moods without something to occupy him, I said, "You were working on a monograph this morning. Why do you not pass the time by continuing it?" How he had managed to find any time to work on his own projects while he was so busy was remarkable to me, but as he was always happiest when he was working, I saw it as a lesser evil than forcing him to rest.

"Because there is no point," he said, rather melodramatically. "Watson, there is no one in the world who would read a monograph on the various types of restraints used in the detection and prevention of crime other than myself." He sat up and began pacing in front of our fire restlessly, waving his hands animatedly as he talked. "You see, it is all in the strength of the weave, at least, it is when dealing with rope. Handcuffs are an entirely different art, for there it is all in the type of lock. Locks are a study all their own, Watson, which was the subject of another monograph I wrote." He talked on like this for the next five minutes, while I simply watched in some amazement, for I do not believe I had ever seen him talk so excitedly. "So you see?" he asked, when he had finished. "What need have I to read my own monograph on the subject? There is nothing further I can learn from such a pointless exercise."

It was most unlike Holmes to even consider whether one of his pet projects had any practical use whatsoever, and I began to grow even more worried. My friend was always prone to drastic changes in his mood, and so far I had put it up to the strain of his workload. But in the last five minutes, his mood had shifted so wildly that a horrible suspicion formed in my mind. "Holmes," I said. "Look at me."

"Do bring your ministrations elsewhere, Doctor," he snapped, his mood shifting yet again. "I have told you before, I am perfectly well. Are you so poor a doctor that you cannot tell a healthy man when you see one?"

This outburst was most unlike Holmes, but I was only grieved by it rather than insulted, for it proved my suspicion correct. I am no expert at observation and deduction, but I knew my friend well. Ordinarily, during a lull in cases, he was overtaken by black moods that prevented him from getting up for days on end. His erratic behavior and excitability could only mean one thing: that he had once again engaged in cocaine, a habit I despised. I took a deep breath, dreading the confrontation we were sure to have - indeed, had already had so many times.

One of the benefits, however, of living with Sherlock Holmes is that he is quite capable of guessing what one is going to say. "Do not look so sanctimonious about my use of cocaine, Doctor. It is not illegal and is hardly more dangerous than tobacco, which I believe you are quite fond of yourself!" His eyes flashed and the look he gave me was one under which I had seen hardened criminals quail, though he no doubt knew it could hardly have the same effect on me.

"You know that you and I disagree on this subject," was all I said. I believed heartily that cocaine use was highly detrimental to one's health and thought that nothing could have greater benefit than if Her Majesty's government were to make it illegal. However, few even in the medical world believed the substance to be as dangerous as I did, not having had the dubious benefit of watching it destroy one of the country's greatest minds from the closest of viewpoints. Few who saw how Holmes changed under its influence could argue that its use was at all safe. I could not hide the hurt that engulfed me when I remembered his heartfelt words to me after his return to London, once we had apprehended Colonel Moran, that he would no longer need to indulge in his greatest vice. He had promised me he had given it up. Though I knew that once he craved the drug, it was far beyond his power to resist, I could not help feeling as if it was a betrayal. I stepped closer tentatively - one never knew what he would do while under the drug's influence, and while I did not believe he would strike me, it was best to be cautious. "Holmes," I said, once I was close enough to notice that his eyes were so dilated their usual grey was hardly visible. "How much did you take?"

"I have not overly indulged," my friend replied. "It is no more than my usual seven-per-cent solution."

I nodded in some relief. So at least he had not taken more than he was used to. I had once lived in fear of finding that he had overindulged, so I would at least be spared that for the moment. I went into the drawer where I knew the Moroccan case was kept and picked it up. I hdd pleaded and bargained with him for many years, and knew now that all I could do was remain firm in my resolve if I truly meant him to stop. "I will lock this up," I promised, "if I see you've touched it again, Holmes."

Holmes laughed. "Come, Watson, do you really think you are capable of hiding something so well _I_ could not find it again?"

"No," I said. "But I am sure your brother could, and I will not hesitate to ask him."

Holmes's face suddenly grew cold. "You would not dare."

"Would you like to call my bluff?" I asked. "We have done this before, Holmes. If we do it again, it will be your choice." I had seen him come down off the drug before after long periods of use and it was something I would wish no one to go through, not even my worst enemy. I could only hope that I had caught him early enough that we could be spared that if he stopped now.

Holmes struggled to get himself under control, but I believe even he knew I was correct, and he calmed down enough to say, "Very well, Doctor," before ignoring me in anger for the rest of the day.

I very much wished I could take some time from my practice, now that I knew the danger, but the scarlet fever epidemic became a terrible strain of 'flu so that I was kept busy. I made sure to note Holmes's whereabouts whenever I knew them, noting for a few days that he had at least resumed eating and sleeping before running off on a new batch of cases. I did not know whether to wish there were fewer cases so that he might rest, or more so that he could be occupied and therefore leave aside the cocaine.

I had no suspicion that he had lied to me until a week after our confrontation. Holmes had been much like his usual self, apparently forgetting about our argument and discoursing to me about all subjects during those few times we had meals together. I dared to hope that it had been a one-time indiscretion until I chanced to return home earlier than expected to find him asleep on the settee in the middle of the day. This was most unlike him, and I am ashamed to say that rather than being pleased that he finally was getting some rest, I immediately checked to see if the Moroccan case had been opened. It did not appear as if it had, but even under the influence of the drug, Sherlock Holmes was still a formidable mind, and surely would have been capable of covering his tracks so that no one would notice he had used it. I waited until he at last awoke, and said only, "I told you not to touch it!"

His ashamed expression told me everything I needed to know.

I slept at my club that night and did not return until the next morning.

I said nothing, intending to go over to the Diogenes Club as soon as possible and ask for Mycroft's help in hiding the Moroccan case and its cursed syringe as soon as possible, when I was suddenly called to fill in at a nearby practice when one of the doctors who frequently took my practice while I was on a case fell ill. His practice was a busy one, and I found myself with not a moment of free time for nearly three days, after which I hastily returned to Baker Street, fearing the worst. "Holmes?" I cried, hurrying up the stairs.

I entered our sitting room to find my worst nightmare. Holmes was slumped on the floor next to the armchair and I rushed to his side, where he appeared to be unconscious. "Holmes!" I cried. I felt for his wrist, immensely relieved when I found his pulse, though it was racing and he appeared to be burning with fever. "Holmes, for God's sake, how much did you take?"

My friend groaned, and I managed to sit him up against the chair. "Watson?" he murmured thickly.

"Yes, I'm here," I said. "For heaven's sake, Holmes, I told you not to touch it," I added, though more in grief than remonstrance, now that I saw what condition he was in.

"I think I fainted," he said. "Not sure." He blinked and put a hand to his head. The Moroccan case was lying next to him, and I realized that he had never been so far gone before Never before had he forgotten to hide the evidence from me. "I am sorry, Watson," he said.

"Never mind, old fellow," I said. "I should not have left you alone, knowing what state you were in." I sighed in defeat. "This is beyond my ability, Holmes. You must allow me to call someone."

Perhaps even he realized what he had nearly done to himself, for he nodded, allowing me to support him to his bedroom. Once he was resting comfortably, I called Mrs. Hudson and instructed her to send for a doctor I knew, whose specialty was the effect various substances had on the body. "Do forgive me, Watson," Holmes said, his grey eyes glittering as I went back into his room. "I hardly meant to cause you any worry."

"I know, Holmes," I said tiredly. I was never used to seeing him vulnerable like this, though this was hardly the first time he had been laid up because of the drug. This was the only time it had been so close, though. I believe that if I had not found him he might be dead now. I sighed and looked him in the eyes. "Give up the cocaine, Holmes, for good, and there will be nothing to forgive," I said.

Silence, and then, "Very well, Watson. I will do what I must."


	14. Chapter 14

Prompt: Bees, from zanganito

* * *

Mycroft Holmes arrived at his office one December morning in 1910 to find a small, wrapped parcel on his otherwise immaculate desk. If he had not known better, he would have thought one of his new aides had been foolish enough to get him a Christmas gift, but the scrawl on the packaging identified the sender as his brother before he even noticed the return address of Sussex Downs. By the size of the package, the item within was a book, and Mycroft opened it, wondering all the while why his infernally unpredictable little brother had chosen now to begin the tradition of Christmas gifts.

The book, when Mycroft had removed the wrapping, was titled _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen._ So Sherlock had finished the book which he was terming his _magnum opus_ , though why the foremost criminal investigator of the past fifty years should want his legacy to be a slim volume on beekeeping was beyond Mycroft's understanding. He had heard little from his brother in the years since the latter's retirement, as Sherlock refused to take the time to write and send a letter, and Mycroft found telegrams to be annoying inconvenient - one could never say what one wanted and they moved altogether too fast. He looked at the telephone seated on his desk, then up at the clock. Barely nine o'clock in the morning, and entirely too early for Sherlock to be awake. Mycroft smiled and picked up the receiver.

"I see you have received my Christmas present," Sherlock said immediately upon answering. "For heaven's sake, Mycroft, must you call so early?"

"It is after nine o'clock. You've become entirely too lazy in your retirement, brother mine," Mycroft said.

" _I_ have?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "Have you spent your afternoons anywhere other than the Diogenes Club in the past forty years? But never mind that, what do you think? I have finished my greatest work, Mycroft, after much effort on my part."

"Yes, I see. Thank you," Mycroft said, flipping through the pages. "I have to ask, though, weren't you going to spend your retirement writing a treatise on detection? Surely that should have more practical applications than a study of beekeeping."

Sherlock's exasperated sigh caused Mycroft a smile. "What possible use would a treatise on detection be if no one is to read it? You know Scotland Yard has never listened to me on the subject; what makes you think they would be more likely to read a book about it? Besides, such a thing would only become a manual for those enterprising criminals searching for a way around the law. No, Mycroft, it is best that my methods are laid to rest with me."

For all his new focus on beekeeping, Sherlock's logic was still thankfully sound. "Well argued, Sherlock. I do hope you aren't expecting a return gift," Mycroft said.

"Certainly not," Sherlock said. "I merely thought you would enjoy reading it. Perhaps it has some practical applications for the nation. You do know how integral bees are to food production."

Sherlock went on in this vein for several minutes, discussing pollination rates and the average number of bees hatched in an average hive, to which Mycroft had only to interject an occasional "Yes," or "Interesting," to keep the conversation going. He considered himself a patient man with wide interests, traits which had helped him enormously in the unique position he held in government, and was long used to listening to discourses on whatever subject had caught his brother's fancy. This one, however, had lasted rather longer than most of his other fleeting interests, and Mycroft admitted that it was surely a trial. He wondered if it was some long buried instinct for husbandry from their father's landowning ancestors that had shown itself only in Sherlock's retirement. If it was, the trait had surely passed Mycroft himself over. He detested the country, finding its lack of suitable clubs and the daily sameness of country food appalling. There was, after all, a reason why he had sold off their family estate as soon as he could after he came into it.

"The bees of England, Mycroft, do as much for the nation as any soldier or civil servant," Sherlock finished with a flourish. "A most industrious insect."

"I do hope you haven't told Dr. Watson his importance as a soldier is equal to that of a bumblebee," Mycroft said. Heaven help him, Sherlock had never learned the value of tact.

"Oh, Watson is used to me," Sherlock said. "He has become quite an expert on bees himself. You know, I think he quite enjoys helping me with the hives during his visits."

 _If I have admirable patience, then Dr. Watson surely has the patience of a saint,_ Mycroft thought, not for the first time. He doubted highly the good doctor was interested at all in the keeping of bees, but was merely humoring his friend. It was testament to how well the two knew each other than Dr. Watson was evidently now capable of fooling Sherlock Holmes into believing he visited Sussex with the intent of helping with those blasted beehives that were taking over Sherlock's property. "He would have to become an expert, it would seem, simply to hold a conversation with you these past few years," Mycroft said. Sherlock was so devilishly single-minded in his interests, so that all around him simply found themselves becoming near experts in all sorts of esoteric subjects simply to be able to get a word in on occasion. Not that Mycroft was entirely innocent; no, his grasp of the vaguest subjects was undoubtedly greater than his brother's, but then he did not insist on discoursing about them at all hours to those few he considered close to him.

"That is unfair, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Watson has said that he finds my temper and moods extraordinarily improved these recent years."

"Sherlock, you were previously prone to shooting up your own walls, driving your neighbors out of their homes with the smell of chemicals, and poisoning yourself with cocaine," Mycroft said. "You must consider the comparison when he talks of improvement."

Sherlock said nothing, save for a brief mumble about how he did still insist on staying in practice with firearms should it be needed, which Mycroft could only take as an admission that he was now shooting up the walls of his Sussex Downs cottage. Good heavens, Dr. Watson could have him and be glad about it. "What is it about bees, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

"Have I not just told you how important their function is? Were you not listening to me?" Sherlock asked in exasperation.

"Certainly not, I tuned you out almost immediately," Mycroft said. "You cannot fool me, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. "You know, Mycroft, the study of crime is really a study of society. Its ills, its problems. In a perfect society, crime would not exist at all, yet it does. In my estimation, the criminal investigator must also become an student of all of humanity to truly count himself an expert."

Mycroft was beginning to regret he had ever asked the question, sure that he should be on the 'phone until lunch. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "What on earth does this have to do with bees?" he asked. The telephone was an extraordinary invention, he thought idly, but it did make conversations longer. If he could _see_ his brother, Mycroft would surely have been able to deduce much of this without either of them saying a word and get back to important business. Instead they were forced to go through the tedious steps of explaining everything aloud. Dreadfully slow business.

"I am getting to that!" Sherlock said. "You see, bees all work together for the harmony and benefit of the hive. Each drone in the hive performs their function and goes about their business efficiently and without any fuss. So unlike our own society, wouldn't you say, Mycroft, where each individual strives for his own benefit more than anyone else's?"

"Well, yes, that is obvious," Mycroft said.

"And yet, I have found bees are also strikingly similar to humanity. Nowhere else in the animal kingdom is there such an organization as is seen in the humble beehive. Each worker has their function, whether it be gathering pollen, caring for the eggs, maintaining the hive's structure, protecting the hive from threats, etc. I have found it to be the most extraordinary mirror of the structure of our own society, Mycroft. Do you not agree? Farmers, builders, caretakers, soldiers, all ordered about by a clear hierarchy leading back to one ruler? It is quite fascinating to observe, for if humanity were only as industrious as the bees, we should indeed have a perfect world."

Mycroft had not thought Sherlock had the remotest idea how society functioned, beyond being aware of whoever the reigning monarch happened to be, and indeed had never thought his brother had any respect for the mores of society. Now he thought everyone should simply fill their own assigned role to ensure a harmonious society? "It is not a bad analogy," Mycroft allowed. "Though I daresay it is an impossible one for humanity to emulate."

"I know that, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "I merely meant that those who study humanity would do well to study bees as well, for it gives one an extraordinary insight into how our own society works."

"Well, I may agree with you that the organization is similar," Mycroft said. "We did have a queen, until recently, and the King fulfills much of the same function. I suppose it is analogous to the role of the queen of the hive." _How_ had he found himself having this conversation? It seemed that whenever his brother called, he was drawn into the most ridiculous matters, which served only to take his attention away from what was truly important. The situation in Germany was sinking by the day, and Mycroft began searching for a way to be done with the phone.

Sherlock surprised him by laughing aloud. "Oh, Mycroft, I can count on one hand the times you have been wrong, but I believe today I must add a second hand."

"Whatever are you talking about?" Mycroft asked.

"You cannot truly believe the _King,_ or even Her Late Majesty, hold the role most analogous to the queen bee?" Sherlock said.

This conversation was getting entirely out of hand. "Then who is, Sherlock? You know, I really am very busy."

"Why, _you_ are, brother mine," Sherlock said, as if it was obvious.

"Oh," Mycroft said, realizing at once that he was correct. "Well, I concede the point, little brother. I shall send you a bottle of claret as your prize." He had always done so on those occasions he had been wrong and his brother correct, though the last time had been nearly twenty-five years previously.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Watson shall appreciate it when he visits. Incidentally, I shall take up no more of your time, Mycroft. He should have received his copy as well and I am anxious to know what he thinks of it."

"Yes, for heaven's sake, go bother Dr. Watson about your bees instead," Mycroft said. "Oh, and Sherlock? Merry Christmas. Do try to get yourself up to London sometime before I retire."

"You could always come down to Sussex, Mycroft," Sherlock said before hanging up. Mycroft shook his head, sent his secretary out in search of a bottle of claret, and went back to his daily reports, which had only the effect of making him wish he were still talking to his brother about beehives.

If things continued as they were on the Continent, he very much believed his brother's services should be required before his retirement.


	15. Chapter 15

Prompt: Alien Abduction, from Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: I definitely took what was probably meant to be a crack prompt and attempted to ground it in reality.

* * *

My friend Sherlock Holmes was by 1895 so well known that he had near complete freedom to choose whether he wished to take on a client's case or not based purely on what he termed the "factors of interest." He naturally gravitated toward those cases which had unique features and would challenge his formidable skills, and so my notes from these later years are replete with crimes of the most grotesque nature.

However, Holmes's newfound fame also meant that many people came to seek his services for the most mundane of reasons, and we often found ourselves talking to as many as six potential clients each day without taking on a single one of their cases. It was at these times Holmes would rail against the lack of ambition among the criminal classes. One of these, however, had a very strange start that recommends it for publication despite its inauspicious end.

We had barely finished our breakfast when a young woman was shown up to our rooms by the page. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must help me!" she cried. "I have been so frightened!"

"Please, sit down, and tell us your story. I see that you are a typist and yet are not at your post this morning, and that you have come from your boardinghouse in a great hurry," my friend said.

The young woman looked at him in astonishment."That is exactly right. I am indeed a typist and I take rooms in a boardinghouse on St. Martin's Street," she said. "I retire precisely at nine o'clock each night, for I have an early start each morning. Yet, lately I have had my sleep disturbed greatly each night by a bright light that streams into my room. It is nearly blinding, Mr. Holmes! I thought at first it should stop, but after nearly two weeks I am nearly at my wits' end! Oh, Mr. Holmes, I am sure it is Martians coming to abduct us all and I have seen their space ships!"

At this pronouncement, I hastily turned my laugh into a cough, though Holmes's eyebrows had lifted seemingly of their own accord and he stared at our potential client.

"You do not believe me?" the young lady asked.

"Have you been away from home recently?" Holmes asked.

Our young client looked surprised at the question but said, "Why, yes, I had a week's holiday and I spent it with my mother in Newcastle."

"Precisely," Holmes said. "While you were away the lights in your street have been changed from gas to electric, which is considerably brighter. There is the answer to your problem."

The young woman stammered her thanks, though as soon as she had gone, Holmes sank onto the settee in a fit of despondency. "It was very promising to begin with, Watson, but that notion about Martians was utterly ridiculous."

I agreed, and we said no more about it until the next day, when a young man appeared at our door in a most agitated state.

"I cannot explain to anyone what has been happening, yet I must tell someone and then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes," the young man said. "They say you can solve anything."

"They, whoever they may be, are misinformed," Holmes said. "I have failed no fewer than four times, and left a case incomplete in at least ten, though I daresay my successes weigh more in the balance. Come, tell us your story."

"Well, you should know that I am usually a heavy sleeper," the young man said. "Only every night last week I awoke as tired as when I fell asleep. Well, after over a week of this I thought I should go mad! But then I recalled the reason for it. Each night, I feel as if I am being taken out of my bed and into another place. I cannot say where, only it is very bright, and I feel as if there are people looking at me. I could not tell you who these people are. I have tried and tried to remember, but the only thing I am sure of is that they are not - cannot possibly - be human."

Holmes, admirably, maintained a stoic expression throughout this explanation and merely asked, "Why do you say that?"

Our visitor sighed and ran a hand through his sand-colored hair. "They are far too tall and from my memories their skin is a sort of grey color. I know it sounds absurd, Mr. Holmes, but ever since I thought of it I cannot get the idea out of my head!"

"What idea is that?" Holmes asked.

The young man looked a little ashamed, but at last he said, "That each night, I have been taken from my rooms into a space ship, Mr. Holmes. That aliens have taken me, maybe all the way to Mars, experimented on me, I don't know why. Perhaps they are interested in humans."

Holmes sighed, as if the very idea was a trial of his patience. "I see you are a gas worker, for that distinctive clay upon your shoes is only found underneath the streets of London, and a nameplate bearing your gas company's name is just visible from your pocket. Do inform your supervisor there appears to be a leak in the area you are working in, for your experiences are nothing more than hallucinatory dreams brought on by exposure to gas."

The young man left in some shock, though certainly Holmes's explanation was the only sensible response. Holmes shook his head at the absurdity of it and spent the day buried among a cloud of smoke from his chemistry equipment, which, as he said, did not propose outlandish ideas at him in the guise of a case.

Not two days later, yet another potential client arrived, this time an older man who even I could deduce was some sort of banker. "Mr Holmes, I am so glad to find you at home," the man said. "I have been hearing a dreadful sort of noise outside the window of my office and I was at a loss as to what it was, until I became positive it can only be the sound of a space ship from Mars-"

At this, my friend stood up and showed the man out without even waiting to hear the rest. When he had left despondently, Holmes turned to me. "I ought to investigate the reason why so many seemingly sensible people suddenly believe that they are about to be kidnapped by beings from Mars."

"Well, Holmes, even you say that coincidences are not to be ignored," I said. "Do you not think there might be _some_ truth in what they say?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, not you as well, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed. I quickly decided to forgo all discussion of life on other planets, lest Holmes think I was losing my sense of reality.

The next day, as I was finished with my rounds early and stopped off at a bookshop I frequented. I wandered among the shelves, finding little to occupy me, until bright red cover emblazoned with the word "Mars," caught my eye. Picking it up, I turned a few pages until I nearly gasped aloud. Paying for the book quickly, I all but raced back to Baker Street as quickly as I could. "Holmes!" I cried. "Holmes, I have solved it!"

Holmes met me at the top of the stairs, smiling. "Well, Watson, are you solving crimes without me now?"

"No,"I said, panting. "No, Holmes, of course not. But I was in a bookshop-"

"A common occurrence, for you," Holmes said.

"Yes, but then I saw _this,"_ I said, showing him the book. "Do you see, Holmes? This is why so many people are convinced that they have been abducted by Martians?"

Holmes took the book and read the first few pages, his forehead furrowed in thought. "This fellow says that he has found evidence of life on Mars," he said.

"Yes," I said. "He has studied the surface of the planet closely, and he is convinced that the channels he sees are, in fact, canals, built by an advanced civilization." I studied the intricate drawings he had included. "It must be a very advanced civilization indeed," I said.

"Why is that, Watson?" Holmes asked, settling into the armchair with a look of enjoyment, the same he always wore when he asked me to deduce something he already knew the answer to.

"Why, because they are visible from Earth," I said. "Can you imagine the engineering ability required to build something so large?"

"So you believe our clients when they say they have been abducted by Martians?" Holmes asked.

"Well, no," I said.

"So you are not completely gone," Holmes said. "Why not?"

"Because such an advanced race would surely have no need to visit us to study us," I said. "If they can dig such deep canals, then sure they have telescopes that would be able to view anything on Earth they would like."

"Admirably deduced, Watson," Holmes said. "Incidentally, I don't think much of this fellow Percival Lowell. He seems to me a very poor investigator. Surely he must know that his theory is not the only explanation for these markings on the planet's surface, and that it hardly explains all the facts."

I thought this pronouncement from a man who was famously unaware of the Sun's central position in the Solar System to be hypocritical indeed, but before I could say so, Holmes began to laugh.

"You think me hypocritical, Watson, for you and I have already discussed the limits of my astronomical knowledge."

"You have no limits in that subject, Holmes, for you told me yourself you know nothing of astronomy," I said.

"Precisely," said he. "Yet I know that the existence of some lines on a drawing done of a planet some millions of miles away, seen through a telescope, is poor proof of an advanced civilization. Why, if there were indeed Martians, Watson, would we not have seen other evidence of them before this? Would they not have attempted contact, if they are so much more advanced than we? No, the whole idea is preposterous."

I fell silent, for he was indeed correct. "Do you believe there is life elsewhere in the universe, Holmes?"

"I am not so constrained by my own limits to discount the possibility," Holmes said. "There are, after all, 'more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy,' are there not, Watson? Yet such things hold no relevance to me, nor do they have any effect on my work here. In the end, I think it hardly matters at all to us whether there is or there is not any other life in the universe."

"No, but it is an interesting question to ponder," I said.

"One planet is more than enough for me, Watson," Holmes said, and with that, we gave up on the subject.

However, on my next visit to that bookshop, I happened to notice a novel by a new author, that seemed to be about a most interesting subject. As I was always interested in new literary works, I took the book home and was engrossed in its tale of Morlocks and Eloi when Holmes at last returned. On seeing what I was reading, he gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, Watson, do not tell me you believe in traveling through time as well as Martians?"

* * *

A/N: The "Mars canal craze" was a real thing of the late 19th century, begun by the Italian scientist Giovanni Schiaparrelli in 1877, when a combination of new, more powerful telescopes and Mars coming into orbit closer to Earth led him to observe what he called "canali" (channels) on the planet's surface. Percival Lowell, who later became famous as the astronomer who laid the mathematical basis for the eventual discovery of Pluto, was convinced (like many other people) that these channels were actually canals built by an advanced species of Martians. He published three books about why he believed Martians were behind the channels, the first of which was simply called _Mars_ and was published in 1895. Many people became convinced that Martians were real and this craze led directly to H.G. Wells's _War of the Worlds,_ Edgar Rice Burroughs' _A Princess of Mars_ , and Orson Welles's famous "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast. I have no idea if Lowell's book would have been available in Britain at this time, as he was American, but everything else is as accurate as I could get it.

The book Watson is reading at the end is, of course, H.G. Wells's first novel, _The Time Machine,_ which was also published in 1895 (and is why I didn't pick _War of the Worlds;_ that one wasn't published until 1898).


	16. Chapter 16

Prompt: roasting chestnuts, from mrspencil

A/N: I have NO idea why this prompt gave me so much trouble. I literally spent two days trying to answer it, and now I think I finally got there. I will attempt to catch up later this week *fingers crossed*

* * *

Few, if any, would call me a sentimental man. I am not prone to exhibiting or even allowing myself to feel emotions of any sort, but especially not the softer emotions. I had always said of myself that I am a brain, devoted to reason and logic above all else, and that emotions are the grit in the lens. Bothersome things that get in the way until removed, leaving only that perfect faculty for reasoning that all are born with but few develop.

Perhaps it was from the tone of my telegrams that Mycroft responded by asking me, soon after I had taken lodgings in a tiny, drafty attic in Montpellier, if I was sinking into homesickness. I scoffed at the notion - I, homesick? Not only was such a feeling utterly useless when I simply could not return home with my work incomplete, I had been far too busy for the past two and a half years to feel anything other than fear. Another emotion I do not like to admit to, but alas, one cannot help being afraid when being chased across the world by the remains of the greatest criminal network the world has ever known. _Yes, I frequently sit down and think longingly of Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson's meat stew while I am spying on our adversaries for you and dismantling the most well-organized crime empire anyone has ever created,_ I nearly sent back, before thinking better of it and merely asking him to purchase me a decent set of chemistry equipment. My stay in France, where Moriarty's empire was strongest, would be long and I would have much waiting to do while I set my plan in motion. It would not do to sink into boredom, not here where I had no respite. I shudder to think what would happen if one of Moriarty's henchmen should find me in one of the black moods that plague me when I am without work.

Though now that I view myself in the mirror and note the loss of nearly another stone, I do find myself thinking fondly of Mrs. Hudson's meat stew. The woman to whom I am paying three francs a month for this tiny, miserable room, is not nearly so good a cook and I had not had anything even half so good as that in the previous two years.

Such unwelcome intrusions of my old life into my thoughts were becoming more frequent, and to me, only proved the point that the softer emotions represented a danger. Once, when I stopped briefly in Jerusalem to note how different even the light of the sky appeared, one of Moriarty's men threw a knife and missed me by a hair. I was not so careless again. So perhaps I should not have taken nearly three years to undo Moriarty's network if I had not spent any time wishing for the familiar sights of London. Though it is equally true that it would not have taken me so long if my brother had not insisted on using me as a spy. I spent much time I could have been using to finish my own work engaged in the sort of international politics I have no interest in. But then _he_ certainly has no sentimentality; I do believe he would keep me out in the world as his spy if I did not insist on returning to finish the job, brother or not.

Still, it is most annoying to try to plan the downfall of a criminal network while running for one's life while at the same time reporting on sensitive political and cultural information to the Foreign Office if one's thoughts are constantly interrupted by intrusive reminders of the past. It was the most arbitrary things that seemed to bring thoughts of London to mind. Once, I heard the barking of a dog in Persia and my thoughts drifted of their own accord to Toby and whether he was still among the living. The gangs of street boys in Egypt put me in mind of my Irregulars, many of whom I had promised positions to, promises I would be unable to fulfill until my return. The occasional notes of a violin came closest to stirring my soul to homesickness, and I learned to avoid the opera houses while in Italy. But these were mere trifles, over in a moment; to be truly homesick would have been a luxury in the life I was currently living.

Restless, I donned my latest disguise (for I had taken these rooms as a stonemason) and descended the stairs to take a walk. This was reckless, because I knew Moriarty's gang was everywhere and I was not unknown in France to begin with. Each time I went about in public I was risking discovery or even death. But I could not remain trapped within those walls for months on end, and in any case, I would have to get to know the city if I was to stay here for months.

Perhaps it was the thoughts of homesickness that refused to dislodge themselves from my mind, for I could not concentrate on memorizing the streets. It was small, and quaint, and what many termed picturesque, and I glowered at it. I disliked being anywhere I did not know, for I could not then make allowances for circumstances I could have predicted in London. What 'bus lines were likely to run late? What routes did cab drivers ordinarily take? These are the details on which a city runs, and no criminal expert can do his job without knowing them. For all the beauty of Montpellier, I say, give me London in all its grime and soot. At least there, where I know every alley and corner as well as I know my own name, I can be sure of myself.

I hurried along, more annoyed at this outlandish display of emotion. Wishing myself back in London would not help that happen, and I reminded myself that this was the final step before I could at last return to finish the job. Once Moriarty's French enterprise was defeated, all that would remain was to apprehend Colonel Moran in London and than my task would be complete. What a relief that would be! But only the work would get me there, and I focused again on memorizing the streets of Montpellier.

But it seemed as if I was not free from these pesky thoughts of home, for I soon smelled a familiar aroma that cut through the winter chill. A man, an itinerant peddler by his clothing and mannerisms, was seated on the street corner, roasting chestnuts over a small fire. I am not prone to flights of fancy, yet the smell of those chestnuts immediately reminded me of London at Christmas, the streets full of carolers and the smell of chestnuts and Christmas pudding. The memory was so strong that I very nearly turned to my right to ask Watson if he would like some before I hastily strode away, seeking the poor refuge of my attic rooms.

Once safely within my walls - my prison - again, I sank onto the dirty armchair. I had heard little of Watson since leaving him at the Reichenbach Falls. Only the account of my meeting with Professor Moriarty, which had appeared in the _Strand_ and found its way to me some months later. I still carried it with me, though I had not read it since its publication. Even reading between the lines deemed fit for publication, I knew what I had done to him by forcing him to believe me dead. My dear Watson is that sentimental fellow that I am not, and I knew before I escaped the Falls how he would grieve, and that is what I read in his account. Knowing how he agonized over his writing, I could only imagine how difficult it must have been for him to write this account. But since then Mycroft has only mentioned once or twice that Watson is doing well, working at his practice. There is an old adage that "no news is good news," and I suppose I must abide by that, though it is a trial to me for anything to remain unknown. I knew my brother would not allow my friend to fall into danger, whether from Moran or anyone else, and if I heard nothing, then it surely meant he and his wife were safe, living the lives of ordinary Londoners far removed from the dangers I faced. That, of course, was why I was doing this in the first place. If any hint of my survival should reach London, Watson would be the first Moran would hunt down. Few would think to look for my brother and anyone who did would likely be surprised by the welcome they would receive. Mycroft is not so helpless as he looks and his rooms are the best protected in the country outside of Buckingham Palace.

Still, as I stoked the fire in the tiny grate, it was as if I saw our Baker Street rooms - for I could never think of them as other than ours, even after Watson married and left for his own home - instead of the tiny garrett I was living in. I had often envied Watson his travels, listening to his tales of India, Afghanistan and Australia in front of our fire, and it occurred to me that I finally was more well-traveled. Though he had always made his journeys sound exciting and adventurous, even when I knew they had been in truth dangerous and highly unpleasant. No doubt this was because Watson is a born storyteller while I am a scientist (though he will certainly never let me live it down if he knew I ever admitted this). How pleasant it would be for us to finally trade stories of the places we had seen. He would forgive the clinical nature of my reminiscences, I am sure, for he had always remained rapt with attention whenever I relayed the facts of one of my early cases. I do believe that Watson would have come with me should I have asked, and I will not pretend I was not tempted to, that first night after Moriarty's demise. It would have been an easy thing to find Watson's room at the inn in Meiringen. I could not help a smile, thinking of how charming he would have found this town I disliked so much. But I could not ask my friend to join me on a journey that could still easily end in my death, and leave his wife to roam the world with me for the amount of time this has taken. No, I shall have to explain everything when I return, and hope he will forgive me. Though the longer my exile lasts, the less likely that will be.

I glanced at the paper and pen I had bought for my chemical experiments. It would be a simple thing, to explain it all in writing. But no, I reminded myself, coming to my senses, for I had thought of this before and always talked myself out of it. If I wrote to him Watson would no doubt appear here in Montpellier within a week of receiving my letter, and then what was I to do? I could not keep another safe with me, and I knew his presence would alert Moriarty's gang to my survival. He has moved on, or at least, I would like to think so. Though I hope he will forgive my deception, I am not so heartless that I expect him not to live his life while I am gone. Perhaps he and his wife have by now had the child they so wanted. He had promised me that in the event this occurred, I should be named godfather. It is strange to think that if this has, in fact, happened, he has had to find someone else. Not that I particularly wanted the duties of godfather to begin with, so it really should not be so unsettling that he would have had to name someone else. I do hope that he did not choose to honor me by bestowing my name on the child, or else the mite shall be very unhappy indeed. Sherlock is a burden I would not ask anyone to bear.

What are these devilish flights of fancy? I do not know what Watson is doing, but to imagine what his life might be is a waste of time I can hardly afford. All this because of the scent of roasting chestnuts? I do not even _like_ chestnuts; what an arbitrary reason to be plunged into this melancholy reminder of Watson and my old life. Perhaps someday I should do a study of the effects of various scents and tastes on the human mind. Undoubtedly that would be of more use than my maudlin daydreams. How I wish I had my violin, for nothing is better than chasing away demons and occupying the mind than music, but I shall have to content myself with the sharp scent of chemicals instead. At least they shall remove the scent of chestnuts from my memory and allow me to continue with my work.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N; Prompt and notes at the end :)

* * *

It was a rare occasion on which I managed to convince Sherlock Holmes to leave London and accompany me on a small visit to the country. But in September of 1895, I had asked Holmes to join me on a small trip north to view Hadrian's Wall, a place that had always been of interest to me. I had not expected him to agree, but to my surprise and thanks to an interest he was at that time cultivating in ancient stoneworks, he did. I was very much looking forward to being away from London, even if it was for so short a time. We had been so busy since my friend's return from what all had believed to be his death that I felt we were both in need of a rest. Holmes, of course, felt differently, but was good enough to humor me, and as we fell into planning it, I believe he was looking forward to it as well.

We arrived at Kings Cross Station on the 1 of September and were at Platform 10 fully half-an-hour before our train was to arrive. With little to do until the arrival of our train, I was soon occupied in watching all the other travellers coming and going amidst the bustle of the train station. I confess I began daydreaming, both about where our fellow travelers in the station might be going and what Holmes and I should do once we arrived, when I turned to my friend, who looked most perturbed. "What is it?" I asked, wondering if he had perhaps seen something amiss.

"I do not know, Watson," Holmes said. "But tell me if you see anything unusual about the people in this station."

I began to pay closer attention to the people bustling by, and was about to say that I saw nothing out of the ordinary when something did catch my notice. "That child," I said, noticing a boy of about twelve pushing a trolley loaded with a steamer trunk. "Is that not an owl in a cage?" I asked in some disbelief. For there was, on top of the steamer trunk, a large brown owl in an even larger cage, seemingly perfectly at its ease.

"Precisely," Holmes said. "In the last five minutes, I have seen no fewer than three such owls pass by."

"Well, that is most unusual," I said. "What possible reason is there to carry an owl about in a cage?"

"None that I can think, Watson," Holmes said. "Save perhaps for a zookeeper, yet none of those who had an owl were over the age of seventeen."

I began to pay closer attention, and as I did I noticed several other strange things. "Holmes, that boy has - why, I believe it is a broom!" The long, thin wrapped parcel on the trolley could be nothing else, yet I could not imagine why a boy nearing adulthood would be traveling with a broom, much less one wrapped so carefully.

"Your observational skills are improving, Watson," Holmes said, his eyes glinting in approval. "You are quite right; they can not be anything but brooms, and there have been at least five of them as we have stood here watching."

Perhaps I had only noticed one of the five brooms, but I could certainly observe my friend's interest increase as we stood there watching. He was on the scent of a case, and I knew he would not let it go until he had determined what was unusual at Kings Cross Station that September morning.

"Come, boys, onto the platform," a harried-looking woman called to her sons, both of whom were pushing steamer trunks on trolleys and quickened their pace in response. Yet, as I watched, they all three suddenly left my sight somewhere between Platforms 9 and 10. "Holmes did you-?" I asked.

"Of course I did," Holmes said.

"But there was nowhere else for them to go but either Platform 9 or 10," I said in disbelief.

"Evidently, there was," Holmes said. "For we are at Platform 10 and they are not here, nor are they across the way at Platform 9."

"But they could not just disappear!" I cried.

"No," Holmes said. "That, my dear Watson, is impossible."

As I stared at the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, I was very nearly knocked over by a haughty-looking woman hurrying her daughter along. "Excuse me!" I said, rather annoyed.

The woman barely glanced my way and I distinctly heard her call me a name that I presumed must be insulting. "Well, that was very rude," I said.

"Indeed," Holmes said, though he appeared more intrigued than anything else. "Did you hear what she called you, Watson?"

"Well, she-" I began, but I had not made out exactly what she had said.

"She called you a 'Muggle,'" Holmes said.

I had to confess that I had not heard this word before, though I was sure it was insulting and rude. I barely had time to notice that the woman's daughter was also pushing a trolley laden with a trunk and an owl before they, too, disappeared from my sight. Though I was soon distracted by the rapt expression on my friend's face; which meant he was surely on the scent of a case and that we would most likely miss our train unless I insisted he leave.

"Holmes, I am sure there is nothing wrong," I said.

Holmes did not answer me except to say, "And I am equally sure there is something going on here, Watson. I cannot rest until I find out what it is. People do not simply disappear between the platforms."

"No, especially since there is a solid wall between them," I said, looking at the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10. At the very least, there could not be many places these mysterious people could go. Though now that I was paying attention to our fellow travelers, I noticed that some of them did seem dressed very oddly. I was certain that the man who had just passed next to me was wearing a cloak in the most violent shade of purple, but when I turned to look, he too was gone.

A shiver went up my back, and for the first time I began to wonder if we had stumbled across something Holmes not only could not, but _should_ not solve. Faced with the daunting prospect of having to force the world's foremost criminal investigator to stop investigating a mystery, I turned to Holmes, only to find him striding toward the barrier between the platforms. "Holmes!" I cried, following him.

I found my friend standing over two young men, the oldest of whom looked to be fourteen years of age and the younger perhaps eleven or twelve. Both were tall and thin with auburn hair, and looked similarly enough that I took them for brothers. Both were pushing trolleys laden with trunks, and the elder had yet another caged owl perched on top. "What do you want?" the younger asked, his expression hostile.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," my friend said. "Perhaps you have heard of me."

"No," the younger boy said. The older merely looked on as if amused by the scene.

"Well, I have noticed some very unusual things happening," my friend said. "For one, the large amount of owls that appear to be traveling by train today."

The older of the two boys merely raised his eyebrows as if surprised anyone had noticed his owl, which was currently preening itself as if enjoying the attention. "Second, it seems as if everyone approaching these two platforms has the most extraordinary ability to disappear into thin air," Holmes continued. "Though of course that is impossible."

"Of course it is," the older boy said, his eyes twinkling. "You have said so yourself."

"You should obliviate him," the younger boy said to his older brother, at least, that is what I think he said. I could not be sure.

"Oh, I don't think there is any need for that," the older boy said. "Mr. Holmes is no threat."

My friend bristled at this dismissal by a fourteen-year-old boy, but I saw the younger boy's hand reach for his pocket, and I touched Holmes's arm, afraid he might be reaching for a knife. "Holmes, perhap we should go," I said. "We will miss our train."

Holmes looked at his watch and saw that I was right. "I do not like loose ends," he said to me. He turned back to the two boys. "Might I trouble you for your name? I have some questions I would like answered when I return. Where shall I find you?"

"Oh, you won't find us, Mr. Holmes," the older boy said, sounding very sure of himself. "But I have no objection to introducing myself to you. My name is Albus Dumbledore."

He said this, I recall, as if it should mean something, though to Holmes and I it was merely a preposterous-sounding name. Before Holmes could say anything else, the younger Dumbledore was striding angrily toward the platform, followed soon after by Albus, who smiled at us as he left. I glanced at Holmes, and when I had turned back, Albus Dumbledore and his brother were gone.

I had long ago heard stories of the faerie realm, of places where the veil between our world and the other were thin, and I had never had reason to believe them until now. There was something here that I believed we should never understand; indeed, that we were not meant to, and was best left alone. "Come, Holmes," I said. "There are things we will simply never understand."

My friend watched the barrier between the platforms for a moment before our train whistle blew and he suddenly turned away. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said. "There is enough to occupy me in this world. I have no need to enter another."

* * *

Prompt: Crossover, from zanganito

A/N: A quick word on Harry Potter canon: Albus Dumbledore was born in 1881, which means he attended Hogwarts from 1892-1899. His brother Aberforth would have been starting Hogwarts in 1895.


	18. Chapter 18

Prompt: A silver ink pen, from Stutley Constable

* * *

In his retirement, my friend Sherlock Holmes was true to his word and has once again permitted me to chronicle and publish the adventures he and I shared after his return from the story I titled "The Adventure of the Final Problem." When I asked him what caused this change of heart, I received only a cryptic answer that he now cared more about the habits of his bees than his professional reputation in London. In my own mind, I have a guess that he is bored, for I have received no fewer than seven telegrams since then suggesting which cases I might choose, which is more interest than he has ever shown in these little stories. I take out my pen to begin, a handsome silver ink instrument, and I cannot help but remember the occasion on which I received it.

It was Christmas Day of 1902, and Holmes and I had risen late, as was our wont, and were just sitting down to breakfast. It had, as I recall, been a slow winter for crime, and Holmes had been much engaged recently in some studies he was conducting on the origin of the Phoenician alphabet. I expected no greater holiday cheer than a quiet day at home, with a good meal awaiting us later and perhaps a visit from Lestrade for a brandy in the evening. Holmes was not much given to making merry during the holiday season, though he observed the niceties as a gentleman must and indulged me my decorations, though perhaps he would have been less tolerant of this if he knew that Mrs. Hudson, not I, was responsible for the small Christmas tree that had appeared in the corner of our sitting room.

I spent the day engaged in my annual reading of Mr. Dickens's masterpiece, _A Christmas Carol_ , which Holmes professed to dislike. Though I had read it aloud to him once, over his protestations, after which I noticed that he then added a moneylender to his array of disguises, and that when dressed in this way, he could have been Ebenezer Scrooge's twin. When I asked him about this, he merely said that inspiration may strike at the strangest of times, and that his opinion of Mr. Dickens' general worth was unchanged.

I was now adept at reading over Holmes's occasional interruptions to explain some feature of the Phoenician letters and little exclamations of interest in his work, so that I finished my book just in time for Mrs. Hudson to bring up our Christmas goose (this year, thankfully devoid of blue carbuncles). When I sat down to dine, I discovered at my place a small, wrapped package. Our Christmas exchanges were always small affairs; Holmes being so childishly impatient that I was forced to purchase any gift I had in mind for him at the very last moment, lest he find it to determine if it was something he actually wanted. There had been frequent times in the early years of our friendship that I found my gift to him unwrapped and left on the breakfast table two weeks or more before Christmas, he seeming to find it a challenge to his intellect to search out any hiding place. It goes without saying that hiding gifts from Sherlock Holmes is a trial, and I reached into our ventilation shaft to find the package I had carefully wrapped and placed there two days before. "Ah, I see you have found the music score for Mahler's latest," he said, without opening it. "Thank you, Watson, I shall certainly enjoy practicing this. His scores have the most unusual bridge sections."

"Holmes, can you not at least pretend to be surprised?" I asked, though with no real anger. Surprising Holmes is a feat that I have achieved on only rare occasions, and never with my Christmas gifts.

Holmes laughed in his silent way. "My dear Watson, I _am_ surprised. I have been dropping hints for weeks that I should like to play Mahler's latest piece. You picked up on it most admirably."

"Holmes, you insisted I accompany you to a concert focused solely on Mahler's works and spent the entire evening discussing how much you would like to adapt his works for solo violin," I said. "That is hardly just a hint!"

"Nevertheless, you came through, old fellow. Thank you," he responded. "Now, it is your turn."

I untied the ribbon on the box next to my place setting. I had no doubt that I should be surprised. Holmes, thanks to his deductive reasoning, was adept at choosing gifts when he made the effort to do so. I had yet to receive anything from him for either Christmas or my birthday that I had not either found extraordinarily useful or enjoyed immensely. For his part, choosing gifts had gone from a task he was forced to do each December to a challenge he seemed to enjoy, though perhaps only as it allowed him to use his observational abilities.

The small thin box turned out to contain a handsome pen and small inkwell. Both were silver, and the pen was engraved with my name in fine script. Used as I was to using whatever pen I could find to write with, I had never owned so fine an instrument. "Holmes, this is magnificent," I said. "Thank you, very much."

Holmes, who disliked receiving credit in all instances, also disliked receiving thanks for his gifts, and merely said, "I thought you would enjoy writing with it. You see I had the shop engrave it for you?"

"Yes," I said. "This is not real silver, is it?"

"Of course it is," Holmes said.

I felt my cheeks warm. He must have gone to considerable expense for this, and I had only found some paltry sheets of music for him. Rarely did I take note of the difference in our respective finances, for the truth was neither of us had much of a head for money, but for me this led to multiple instances of financial distress as I overspent. Holmes, on the contrary, simply never had a need to purchase anything other than his monthly rent, and had amassed a considerable fortune by this time thanks to several high profile clients, though no one would know this from looking at him. I do believe he still owned and wore the same dressing gown he had had when we first took rooms together, and it had been threadbare even then. He, as befitted his bohemian nature, never once noticed that he was considerably better off than I was, only using his advantage to assist me by helping a buyer to purchase my practice in 1894 and to apparently purchase me extravagant Christmas gifts. He had never taken either money or class into account when taking on clients, and I knew he would consider them even less where I was concerned. "Really, Holmes, you did not have to," I said in some embarrassment.

"Watson, do not fuss about it," Holmes said. "It means nothing other than that I knew you would enjoy writing with so fine an instrument, especially if you are to continue chronicling our adventures."

I looked up in some surprise, for I had ceased publishing new stories after his return at his request. "Do you mean to say I can begin publishing stories again?" I asked.

"Not as of yet, perhaps," he said. "But I can see the end of my career at hand, Watson. Today's criminals are certainly not of the same quality as their predecessors. I can hardly imagine a man of Moriarty's caliber arising now, could you, Watson?"

I could name a few, but Holmes had seemingly formed his opinion and would not be dissuaded. "No, the time is coming fast where I must exit the stage," he said. "At that time, Watson, you may begin publishing again. There can be no danger in doing so at that time."

"You cannot mean to retire!" I exclaimed. I could not imagine a world in which Sherlock Holmes was no engaged in fighting crime, in waging a war against all that was unjust. I was not old, and he was younger than I. Surely he could not be serious.

"Not just yet, Watson," he replied. "But after this year, or the next, perhaps, I do indeed mean to retire. I wish to leave at the top of my profession, before I have become a caricature of myself." He smiled. "Do not look so shocked, Watson. I have many studies I wish to engage in during my retirement, and I know how you enjoy writing. It is merely a new stage of life, that is all."

"Yes, perhaps," I said. I held up the pen. "You know I shall not use this until you give the word."

"That is my Watson," Holmes said. "Now, let us enjoy this fine goose. I do believe Mrs. Hudson has outdone herself."

"Yes, indeed," I said. "Merry Christmas, Holmes."


	19. Chapter 19

Prompt: Watson improves his deduction skills, from cjnwriter

* * *

The death of my friend Sherlock Holmes was a hard blow, made harder by its suddenness, for no one expected an energetic man not yet forty years of age to meet such a demise. Though it had been long years since he and I had shared rooms, he still had been my closest friend, and I freely admit I spent many months in the stupor of grief, wondering if there was something I could have done to prevent the outcome, revisiting Reichenbach Falls in my dreams, and seeing remnants of Holmes everywhere. Mary, bless her, was my greatest supporter during this time, for I was most adrift and unable to even imagine what my life would be from then on.

I had, as anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes would, developed a keen interest in crime, and was perhaps more excited than I should have been when Inspector Lestrade began asking me to fill in as police surgeon on those occasions their regular doctor could not work. I was grateful for the extra work, but more so not to lose my friends at Scotland Yard without Holmes. For they were friends, now; however much Holmes disparaged their abilities he had come to appreciate those officers we had worked with most, and they and I were now united in shared grief.

"What do you make of this, Doctor?" Lestrade asked me one afternoon I had been called in to help at the station. A murder victim lay on the examining table, a deep wound clearly visible in his chest. "Stabbed?"

I examined the wound closely and nodded. "The knife was twisted as the murderer did his work. It was savage work. Revenge, perhaps?"

Lestrade sighed. "Perhaps if we knew who the fellow was, we would have a clue. He had nothing that identified him."

The thought that this young man should go unidentified and his murderer therefore go free was deeply upsetting, perhaps because of my own recent loss. Holmes, I was sure, would have found some clue as to the man's identity, and it dawned on me that perhaps Lestrade had missed something in his own examination. I often tried to follow Holmes's example and use what deduction skills I possessed for my own enjoyment, and flattered myself that I was improving. I began to examine the corpse more closely, though I could see nothing at first that gave me any clue as to his identity. I had learned with Holmes that things many others would overlook were often the key to solving the case, and so I determined not to overlook anything. I was rewarded when I found a small dark stain on the man's right hand. "Look," I said, pointing it out to Lestrade.

"It is nothing," Lestrade said. "An ink stain, perhaps."

"Yes," I said. "But in a most peculiar place." When Lestrade looked at me in confusion, I said, "Well, if one writes with a fountain pen, it is likely to stain one's fingers. This fellow has the ink stain on his palm, from resting them on something dabbed with ink. I would guess that he is employed somewhere with a printing press, perhaps a newspaper or a publisher."

Lestrade smiled. "I don't suppose you've written a monograph on the different types of ink and could tell us which one that is?" he asked, before growing more solemn. "Forgive me, Doctor Watson. It's just that you reminded me of Mr. Holmes just then."

I smiled sadly. "Yes, I know," I said. "I try to follow his example." Lestrade raised an eyebrow at me, and I confess I began to laugh. "Perhaps not in _everything_."

"Well, you have given us something to go on, at least," Lestrade said. "Though we're still no closer to finding out who he was."

"Where was he found?" I asked.

"Just by Potter's Row," Lestrade said. "In the alley just off the corner."

"Potter's row," I said. The name was familiar to me, and thought for a moment before I remembered why. "There is a publisher on that street, a small one with its own press. I remember, when I was trying to sell _A Study in Scarlet_. This young man undoubtedly worked for them."

Lestrade was already reaching for his hat. "If I visit them with a photograph, they will almost certainly know who he is. Thank you, Doctor. You have given me an excellent start to my investigation."

"You're welcome, Lestrade," I said. I left feeling distinctly pleased. I may not have been anything like Holmes, but by using what he had taught me, I had at least helped Scotland Yard identify a murder victim and with any luck, they would now be able to find the murderer.

In Holmes's absence, it was the best that could be done.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes followed Inspector Lestrade and I into the house, for all appearances distracted and gazing up at the sky, though I knew he was deeply engaged in his investigation. At times, his methods appeared strange to those who did not know them, but since his return, most people seemed so in awe of him that they were content to let him do as he wished. "It makes things much easier, Watson," he had said to me. "While I would do what I needed to regardless, I now no longer have to spend time convincing anyone that my methods do, in fact, work."

We were greeted inside by the lady of the house, a formidable, haughty woman dressed in so much taffeta it appeared to be more armor than dress. She appeared most upset about our intrusion into her home, and Lestrade began attempting to reassure her. "The death of your servant, Mrs. Lanser..." he said.

"It was only a fall!" the lady protested, though color rose to her cheeks, and I saw Holmes take note of her tone, which had a slight note of panic to it.

"That may be, madam, but we are obliged to investigate any suspicious death that we are informed of," Lestrade said. "That is why I have engaged the services of Sherlock Holmes. You must know of his discretion in matters such as these. The same, of course, applies to his friend, Dr. Watson."

"Excuse me," I said to the lady. "Have you been out walking today?"

Mrs. Lanser looked surprised at my question, but then said, "Why, yes, I always walk in the garden before midday. It energizes me."

I thanked her and allowed Lestrade to take the unfortunate lady into the parlor. "I believe she is lying, Holmes," I said.

"Why is that, Watson?" Holmes asked.

"Because she has not been walking in the garden," I said. "I noticed as we passed that her garden paths are a most peculiar red-colored dirt, yet I saw on her shoes and the hem of her skirt numerous grey smudges. Clay, wouldn't you say, Holmes?"

"Excellent!" my friend cried. "You are doing very well, Watson. Go on."

"Well," I said, "That grey clay matches the area where the servant's body was found, does it not? You said it was a unique type found near riverbeds in this area."

"I did," Holmes said. "It is indeed the same type of clay. You have unearthed two things of importance, Watson. The type of clay, and that she lied about it when asked." His eyes gleamed with approval as he looked at me. "You are improving, dear fellow."

I flushed with pleasure. "I have had the advantage of learning from a master," I said. "But it was while I worked as police surgeon that I was able to put it into practice. Lestrade says that I more than once noticed something they had missed. Do you mean you did not notice the clay, Holmes?"

"On the contrary, it was the very first thing I noticed," Holmes said, and at my disappointed look, he smiled. "But you have got it very early in the case, and I wager Lestrade will not notice it at all."

I laughed. "He was most impressed whenever I was correct in my deductions," I said. "

Holmes sniffed derisively. "They are easily impressed at Scotland Yard. But come, Watson, or else we shall leave this investigation in his dubious hands."


	20. Chapter 20

Prompt: Mrs. Hudson spends a Christmas Day with Holmes, from W.Y. Traveller

* * *

There were many things about having the world's only consulting detective as a lodger that made life interesting (some would say difficult, others impossible). One of these was the arrival of the post, which if Mr. Holmes received first, meant that all but the most private correspondence would be opened before anyone else saw it. Not that he needed to open it to know who was sending the other occupants of 221 Baker Street letters, and Mrs. Hudson had often returned home to find Mr. Holmes informing her that her sister was due for a visit, or her friend's husband had just been offered a posting in Australia before she even knew she had a letter.

Mrs. Hudson now tried to get to the post first, and she had the advantage in that Mr. Holmes was either usually very busy or very lazy. This Christmas season, she was expecting a letter from her sister, who she usually visited for the holiday, and was looking forward to spending some time with her nephews. She quite enjoyed the rest from the general aura of chaos that surrounded Mr. Holmes, particularly now that Dr. Watson had married and left 221b. He was still a frequent guest, as, more surprisingly, was Mr. Holmes at the Watsons' and Mrs. Hudson fully expected that the doctor would invite his friend for Christmas. But before she went for the post, she did have to bring Mr. Holmes his tea.

"You've received a letter from your sister," Mr. Holmes said as Mrs. Hudson brought him the tea tray. He handed her the letter. "A trifle late, this year."

"No doubt she is busy," Mrs. Hudson said. She would have to begin rising fully an hour before dawn to reach the post before Mr. Holmes, it looked like. He had been most bored since Dr. Watson had left, which perhaps accounted for the increase in small explosions from his rooms and the fact that he had made a concerted effort to reach the post before her for two weeks straight. Mrs. Hudson opened her letter and sighed. "Well, that explains that," she said, disappointed. It appeared as if she would be alone on Christmas this year, and she sighed, before Mr. Holmes noticed she was upset.

Though, of course, that was something of a lost cause. "Your sister has not invited you for Christmas this year?" Mr. Holmes asked, without looking up.

"How did you guess?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I never guess," Mr. Holmes answered. "Your tone is most informative, Mrs. Hudson."

"Well, you are right," Mrs. Hudson said. "Her husband's mother has asked that they spend the holiday with them, in Cornwall. They shall be gone for two weeks." She thought of the gifts she had wrapped for her nephews, which she would now have to send through the post. She had so been looking forward to seeing them.

"Watson is going away as well," Mr. Holmes said. "He and his wife have decided to spend their first Christmas together in Scotland, though I cannot say why."

"I hear that Edinburgh is lovely in the Christmas season," Mrs. Hudson said. "Though I'm sure you were hoping for an invitation."

Mr. Holmes gave her a derisive look. "I do not know why everyone is expected to set aside all their work once a year simply to eat a larger meal and present each other with trinkets. I shall be quite happy engaged in my chemical experiments that day. Pray go to no trouble for me."

Mrs. Hudson, of course, did not believe this for a moment. She had seen Mr. Holmes last year, enjoying the goose she had prepared and taking a bit more cognac than usual. He had been most pleased with Dr. Watson's gift of a set of new glass beakers and spent the evening regaling them all with Christmas carols on his violin. But he had been moping around his rooms since the Doctor left, and Mrs. Hudson was sure he was simply saddened that he would not be spending the day with the Watsons.

Christmas Day dawned cold but bright, though it felt hardly different than any other day. Having given the maid and the page the day off, Mrs. Hudson rose early to stoke the fire so that she could bring Mr. Holmes his breakfast. Already engaged at his chemistry equipment, he thanked her as she set it down, though she wasn't entirely sure he realized it was his breakfast at all. Sure enough, when she went back two hours later to collect it, he had not touched it, save for the tea, which was sitting perilously close to his chemicals. "Is that safe?" Mrs. Hudson ventured to ask. She knew little of chemistry, but given the noxious odors and smoke that routinely emanated from Mr. Holmes's chemistry experiments, she did not think it wise to keep one's tea where it could easily be mistaken for something poisonous.

"Quite safe," he said. "I have been most busy this morning and am sure that I am nearly at a breakthrough. If the liquid in this vial turns green, it will mean I can simply test a man's clothes to determine where he has been, rather than investigating it in person. Most useful in criminal investigations."

Mrs. Hudson knew better than to ask him about his experiment; she had no desire to spend the afternoon listening to long-winded explanations about the various types of clay one could get on one's clothes. Dr. Watson had undoubtedly listened to many such discourses while somehow restraining himself from shoving his fellow-lodger out the window, but she was not as patient as he was. In his absence, Mr. Holmes had become prone to discoursing to Mrs. Hudson about whatever he happened to be studying at the moment, which only proved to her that he was missing his friend more than he was prepared to let on. Which was perhaps why she had not yet been driven to shoving him out the window. "You haven't had your breakfast," she said instead.

"You sound like Watson," Mr. Holmes said. "I am much too busy to stop to eat and not hungry besides. It is most annoying to have to interrupt one's day thrice to eat."

"It's most annoying to faint from hunger in the middle of whatever you're doing as well," Mrs. Hudson said to herself as she closed the door. Dr. Watson had been good at getting him to eat, perhaps because of the one time Mr. Holmes had, in fact, fainted at the conclusion of a case due to lack of food and had scared the good doctor half to death in the early days. Mrs. Hudson did not know if Mr. Holmes simply did not care about whether she worried about him, or took it granted that she would not get so scared, merely annoyed that he wasn't taking care of himself. In the Doctor's absence, however, she would have to try harder, for when he did return for a visit he would be most upset if he saw his friend had returned to his unhealthy habits.

Despite Mr. Holmes's instructions not to go to any trouble, Mrs. Hudson had purchased a small Christmas goose and intended to dress it up as if she was cooking for a large party instead of one recalcitrant consulting detective. Perhaps it worked, for when she appeared at the top of the stairs with the tray, Mr. Holmes was trying very hard to look annoyed and not impressed. "I told you to go to no trouble for me," he said.

"I didn't go through the trouble for you," Mrs. Hudson responded. "It is Christmas Day for me too, Mr. Holmes, and I enjoy a well-dressed goose as much as anyone."

"Oh," Mr. Holmes said. "Do forgive me. I have not been in the Christmas spirits as of late." He paused, then said, "Perhaps you would like to join me?"

There was little that Mr. Holmes did that surprised his enterprising landlady any longer, yet Mrs. Hudson confessed herself surprised by this. Perhaps he had been missing Dr. Watson more than even she had realized. "Thank you," she said, taking the Doctor's usual spot in front of the window.

They ate in silence for a few moments, before Mr. Holmes said, "This is most excellent, Mrs. Hudson. A triumph."

Mr. Holmes could indeed be a gentleman when he so chose, and she had been with him long enough to know when he was merely acting as such to achieve some desired outcome and when he truly meant it. This, she was sure, was the latter. "Thank you," she said. "I'm very glad you're enjoying it." She paused and then asked, "Have you heard from Dr. and Mrs. Watson, since they left for Edinburgh?"

"I received a Christmas card," Mr. Holmes answered. "I suppose I shall have to send them on in return. I hope they do not mind that it will be late. He always took care of our Christmas correspondence and in his absence I was too busy to get to it."

"I doubt he will," Mrs. Hudson said. "Since I included your name on my Christmas card to him." She greatly enjoyed the look of surprise on Mr. Holmes's face. It was rare indeed that anyone could take him off his guard, and Dr. Watson had only done so on a few occasions. This was the first time Mrs. Hudson had ever done so, and it was extremely gratifying.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Mr. Holmes said. "Next year I shall endeavor to do better."

"Perhaps next year you should invite Dr. Watson and his wife here for Christmas," Mrs. Hudson said. "It would be very nice to have you all here together. I shall invite my sister as well. She is most anxious to meet you and my nephews were in awe when they read the Doctor's story and realized who you were."

"Perhaps we should," Mr. Holmes said. "Though you know how I detest that story."

"I cannot imagine why. It was very good. I quite enjoyed it," Mrs. Hudson said. She had often wondered what it was they had got up to while she wasn't bringing them their tea, and found the glimpse into what Mr. Holmes was like to live with fascinating. She got up and began clearing away the empty plates. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. That was very nice."

"It was my pleasure," he answered. "Incidentally, do take this with you." He handed her a wrapped package, which she confessed took her by surprise. "I may have avoided buying Christmas cards but Watson would have been most upset with me if I did not give you your annual Christmas gift," he said.

Mrs. Hudson opened it to reveal a small set of garden tools. "Mr. Holmes, however did you know I needed new garden tools?" she asked.

Mr. Holmes laughed aloud. "Why, Mrs. Hudson, you are out in your garden every day during the spring and summer and I have never seen you purchase new tools since I took rooms here. Undoubtedly yours are worn and ready for replacement."

"You are quite right, I shall enjoy these very much," Mrs. Hudson said. She should not have been surprised that he noticed such a thing, for he noticed everything, but she was. She had not thought he had been paying attention (though she didn't rule out that he had more than once used her garden tools for some purpose of his own, in which case it was long past time she replaced them). "Thank you very much!"

Mr. Holmes granted her a rare smile, which she took to mean he did actually appreciate what she did for him every day despite the fact that he filled her house with smoke and chemicals and frequently shot up her walls. Surprisingly, these odd habits of his no longer bothered her. They were merely part of having the world's only consulting detective as her lodger, and she, like nearly everyone else, could not imagine anyone else living in 221b Baker Street.


	21. Chapter 21

Prompt: The first all-nighter, from Hades Lord of the Dead

* * *

After the conclusion of the Jefferson Hope case, some months after I had first taken rooms with Sherlock Holmes, he had not had many more cases of difficulty. In most instances, I recall, he had not had to leave our sitting room to bring a problem to its conclusion, and his clients invariably left in awe. Yet few seemed to send any further business his way, and it was thusly that I became acquainted with the black moods that plagued Holmes when he was not engaged on a case. I must admit I was disappointed, and not only on his account. Perhaps because I was bored with little to do during my recovery, but assisting Holmes on the Jefferson Hope case had been one of the most interesting events of my life, and I harbored a secret hope that if he should have another case as interesting he would ask me to accompany him. Though, of course, I had no right to expect it. This was, after all, his way of earning a living, while I was hardly recovered enough to act as assistant to a private detective. Even the Jefferson Hope case had stretched my limits to their utmost.

Yet, in the summer of 1881, as I made to disappear to my upstairs room as I usually did when Holmes was engaged in his work, he suddenly stopped me. "Pray remain, Doctor," he said. "I would like your input, for I think this case has the potential to be an interesting one."

"Of course, Holmes," I said, gratified to be asked. He quickly furnished me with the particulars of the case, which seemed a simple affair to me. The man in question suspected that someone was watching his wife at night while they slept, yet I knew that could hardly be all. Holmes would not have taken the case if there had not been some factor of interest.

"You are quite right, Watson," Holmes said, chuckling. "This case proves too difficult to solve from my armchair. We shall have to keep watch on my client's house tonight."

"You wish me to accompany you?" I asked.

"Certainly," Holmes said. "If you feel you are able, old fellow." He looked at me with what might have been called concern in another man, for it was true that my condition was not yet much improved from when I had first returned from Afghanistan. I, however, brushed this aside, for I was much more interested in Holmes's case than I was in my own recovery.

"I will be fine," I said. "I will bring my revolver, just in case," I added.

"Excellent," Holmes said. "My client lives some twenty miles out of London; we shall be able to take a train and have a leisurely meal before our watch begins." This is exactly what we did, and having not been out of London since my return, I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to the country. Holmes appeared faintly amused by my enthusiasm, until at last dusk settled and we approached his client's residence.

"Holmes," I asked. "Where are we to watch from?" I knew little about the art of detection, yet I had an idea from those novels I had read that we should remain unnoticed. The client's house was situated on a large property that had views of the surrounding countryside. There seemed little chance of our not being spotted.

Holmes smiled. "Our client knows we are here, and has pointed out a small greenhouse we may use," he said. He pointed out a small building on the side of the property. "You see it has a perfect view of the lady's bedroom as well as the front entrance?"

"Yes, indeed," I said. We made our way there silently, where the door of the greenhouse had been left open to us, undoubtedly by Holmes's client.

"The intruder usually appears sometime after midnight," Holmes said, crouching down underneath a table, while ensuring that he could still see.

The sun had only just barely set. "We are in for a long wait," I said.

Holmes smiled. "Yes. These nighttime watches are hardly my favorite. They can be very tedious."

My companion had such a peculiar reserve to him that it had taken me some months to learn to determine what he meant from what he said. I took this statement to mean that he had brought me along as company, rather than for my assistance with the case. Surely he could have conducted the watch alone; for he did not need me to determine whether an intruder was visiting the man's wife at night. Far from being insulted, I was strangely pleased. Perhaps my odd fellow-lodger enjoyed my company as much as I was beginning to enjoy his.

"It reminds me of sentry duty, in the army," I said, settling myself across from Holmes, under yet another table. It was most uncomfortable, though I tried not to complain. Surely Holmes, who was considerably taller than I, was in greater discomfort, having to force his frame to fit under the small table.

Holmes glanced at me, for I had rarely mentioned my army service, wanting to forget my disastrous time there. "Not that I ever was on sentry duty," I added. "Though I sat up often enough on medical watch."

"You have undoubtedly seen some action," Holmes said.

"Well, until Maiwand I actually saw very little," I said. "My regiment was rather removed from the larger Afghan campaign and spent much of our time on march. We did little other than set up camp and take it down again. Most of the men who I treated were suffering from disease. Enteric fever, as I had, malaria, venereal disease." I felt my cheeks warm at the last example, though I had treated many for such things, as men far from home do not often make the best decisions regarding their off-duty entertainments. "Even in the few skirmishes I did see before Maiwand, I mostly remained behind the lines, to await the wounded. Though I once removed a bullet from one man's neck, where he was most lucky it did not even graze his artery."

Holmes appeared impressed by this, which I had always counted among my finest moments (indeed, the only truly fine moment of my army service). "That is a useful skill, Watson," he said. "I must remember that in my profession, a bullet is always a distinct possibility. It is a rare detective who does not make dangerous enemies." He smiled.  
"I shall count myself lucky to share rooms with so skilled a doctor."

I stared at him, incredulous at his reaction. "You cannot mean you expect to be murdered!" I asked in some horror.

Holmes laughed aloud, though he never took his eyes off the client's house, nor did they lose their keenness. "Relax, Watson. I have no plans to be murdered at present. But it is best to be prepared for all possible outcomes."

I relaxed somewhat, for not only was I worried for his safety, I was beginning to wonder if I had unwittingly placed myself in a dangerous situation by sharing lodgings with him. Then another thought occurred to me. "Holmes, I hope that in the unlikely event someone shoots you, you do not expect me to conduct surgery on you in our sitting room!" I exclaimed.

Holmes laughed again. "I assure you, Watson, in the event I am shot I will be quite content with the nearest hospital." He gave me a strange, sidelong look. "Though perhaps risks of that nature will be lessened if you continue to accompany me."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I take it you have brought your service revolver?" Holmes asked, and I assented. "I have already observed you are a better shot than I am, Watson. I shall have less to worry about if you are here watching my back."

He had not exactly observed my skill with a pistol, but had engaged me in a shooting competition in our sitting room, which I had won handily. I can only offer the excuse that we were both desperately bored that day. Holmes was not a poor marksman, but my Army training and practice meant that even with my injured shoulder, I hit the bullseye of a target more often than not. We sat in silence for a few moments, when I said, "I do hope you are planning to do more with your career than eventually be a target for murder." It seemed to me that his skills in the field of detection were unmatched, and though I had not known him long, I thought it very possible that he could rise to the very top of his profession.

"I have plans, Watson," he said. "Though it shall take some time to build up a reputation. At least now I have decent rooms in which to interview clients. Though I still must improve a great deal."

"You, improve?" I asked, for it seemed to me that he knew everything connected with crime that it was possible to know.

"Watson, what you have seen are mere trifles. My deductive powers are barely the surface of what I can use as a detective. I must study those specific fields of knowledge which are necessary for a student of crime, and above all, observe all that goes on in our Empire if I am to rise to the top."

My new friend was ambitious, certainly, though I believed wholeheartedly that he could, if he so chose, surpass either of the fictional detectives I had compared him to some months earlier. Though it did seem a tall order to know all that went on throughout the Empire and I said so.

"You are right, Watson," my companion answered. "Though I imagine it will surprise you if I tell you I have never yet left Europe. With so many people traveling from our shores across the world, to India, Africa, Canada, Australia and beyond, it does me a great disservice not to know those places as intimately as I know London. The solution to a problem might hinge on some spice I do not know of that comes only from Ceylon, or some specific pine leaf native to Vancouver."

"Well," I said. "I cannot help you with Canada, or Africa for that matter, but you know I know something of India, and I have also spent time in Australia. You may ask me anything you wish."

"You have been to Australia?" Holmes asked.

"Many years ago, when I was a boy," I said. "I imagine it has changed greatly since then."

Holmes looked at me with new interest. "You have hidden limits, Watson. I wonder if I shall ever plumb them. You must someday tell me more of your adventures in Australia. There have been some sensational crimes there."

"Yes, well, it is very lawless in some places-" I began.

"Hush, Watson, there is our man!" Holmes cried, interrupting me. I do not know how he determined anyone was outside, for the night was as black as ink, but as my eyes adjusted I soon saw the figure running toward the house. Though he was running toward a window toward the back of the house, not that of the wife's bedroom. "Are you ready, Watson?" Holmes asked.

I loaded my revolver, suddenly thrilled with the chase. "As you are, Holmes."


	22. Chapter 22

Prompt: Look away, from cjnwriter

A/N: I have a thing for Holmes and Watson during WWI, which is the only excuse I can offer for the way this response got away from me and expanded into something massive. That, plus I got to include Mycroft and make it angsty, so it was really everything I love. I AM SORRY. ANGST AHEAD.

* * *

If I had known that I should someday return to London and find it alien to me, I would have thought myself in a cocaine-induced haze. Yet since the start of this accursed war, a heavy, somber atmosphere hung over the city that I was unfamiliar with. Though in truth, Sussex Downs was little better. After two and a half years of war, during which nighttime bombing raids were not uncommon and the threat of invasion hung over a weary populace, much of the country was gripped by the same fear. This war, it would seem, heralded the start of a new age, one far removed from the more genteel time I had once railed against. I was not sure I wished to live in this new world; indeed, there were times I felt as if I were a relic from an earlier age, one that many were already beginning to refer to as "Victorian" after Her Late Majesty.

Nevertheless, I was glad enough to return to London just before Christmas of 1916 when Mycroft asked me to give a briefing to some intelligence officials on the relations between the German government and the rebel Irish factions. Thanks to the time I spent in America, I am now considered something of an expert in the subject, which only proves how wartime turns everything upside down. But I have always found work to be the best antidote to any sorrow or worry, and so I much preferred spending my time reading intelligence reports and memorizing the histories of Irish rebels to reading the casualty lists over and over again. Even tending my bees gave me too much time to think and wonder at the purpose and outcome of it all.

Perhaps retirement does not suit me as I thought it would. Watson would probably tell me that he had told me so, if he were here (actually, I know he would, for he has said as much in his letters). No matter. Through what small assistance I can give our war effort, I shall make sure he can do so again in person, and soon. I shall consider simply having him back home well worth a certain smugness on his part for judging me rightly, as he always has done. I arrived at Whitehall and hurried past Mycroft's staff, noting how grim they looked, knocked on his office door and he waved me in. My brother did not look at me, his keen eyes fixed on something on the far wall. I looked at it curiously, then immediately wished I had not.

The invention of the motion picture camera was heralded as a miracle. At that time, of course, no one saw this war coming, and no one anticipated how it could be used to bring the horrors of war directly into one's life. The images playing on Mycroft's far wall, grainy, black and white, and soundless, nonetheless captured the stark destruction now raging in France, and I could not look away. My eyes remained fixed on the images, no matter how many times I told myself to look away, to look at anything else.

The trenches were exactly as I pictured them in my mind, full of mud and grime and from Watson's letters I knew how many of the young men serving there fell ill and died before they ever saw battle. The young soldiers in Mycroft's newsreel appeared to be barely more than schoolboys. I wondered suddenly how many of my Irregulars were there now. How many of them would survive, and how many would not. I swallowed forcefully, viewing now the hideous machinery of war. The Gatling guns that fired so many bullets at once accuracy was no longer a necessary skill, the tanks that made their slow, steady way across what Watson always termed No Man's Land - a hideous, desolate landscape between the trenches littered with barbed wire and dead bodies no one claimed. Watson said it was called such because no man could climb from the trenches onto it and live.

I had seen what this country had looked like before the war. Green fields, small towns with thatched roof cottages. I had always told Watson the countryside filled me with dread, so easy was it to commit a crime before help could arrive. Now, that seemed a quaint worry, and I wondered if it was even possible for a country to recover from this destruction.

The image on the newsreel changed in quick succession; from a soldier in a gas mask, to one who had suffered the hideous fate of mustard gas poisoning. I gasped aloud at this; the disfigurement, Watson said, was nothing compared to the interior damage. Many of these men would never breathe without assistance again. It was not until the newsreel began to show bombs falling with abandon on the trenches, blowing them apart as if they were child's play, that Mycroft turned it off with a worried glance at me.

"Sherlock?" he asked. "I am dreadfully sorry. I had no idea you would be so affected by that."

I struggled to regain some composure and rounded on him. "You would do well to remember, Mycroft, that Watson is there now," I said angrily, before I sighed. "My apologies. I know you must review the footage. It is just that I have never seen it before."

"You must be the only man who can avoid it," Mycroft said.

"You know I permit no distractions while I am engaged on a case," I said. I had always treated my intelligence work, such as it was, as a case, and refused to read any war news not directly related to it, save for Watson's letters and the casualty lists. Every case must have a solution. Should I find this one, perhaps we can finally end this pointless destruction.

I looked at the wall again, now blank, though I could still see the bombs and the trenches in my mind's eye. "Watson is there," I said, more quietly. "I know he is at a hospital and not at the front but still…" His stories from the hospital, such that he told me, were horrifying and I knew he spared me the worst. That was not a kindness, for my overactive mind immediately contrived to supply me with all sorts of scenarios to fill in what he did not say. Now that I had seen the front, even in so poor a copy, I could do little else but imagine him in the middle of that destruction. Bombs were indiscriminate in their destruction, diseases equally so in who they struck, and Watson was not young. It seemed impossible that one man could survive this carnage. Yet he had survived so much else. Was it truly too much to ask for?

"You have heard from him recently?" Mycroft asked.

"A fortnight ago," I said. "He says he is well, though tired. Though at times I would say he almost sounds...despairing. It is most unlike him." My dear Watson is a gentle soul, who insists on meeting the world as if all in it is good. I suspect it is that which made him the ideal companion for me, and I shudder to think that after everything he has been through, it is this which could finally destroy that in him.

Mycroft sighed. "It is a brave man, or perhaps merely a naive one, who is not despairing right now, Sherlock."

"Are things truly that bad?" I asked in some shock.

"I can see no end to this," Mycroft admitted. "We are spending months and thousands of soldiers, to say nothing of the tens of thousands of pounds of equipment, only to gain a few inches, and so are the Germans. I cannot see a way to victory for either side, yet neither will give up. We are at an utter stalemate that is not likely to end."

I need not say how disconcerting it was to hear my brother admit he could not predict with his usual infernal accuracy how things in his sphere of politics were going to turn out. He held my gaze for a moment before looking away. "I am sorry, Sherlock," he said. "I wish I could tell you something different."

I had never seen him so affected, and I studied him closely. I did not have to observe him for long before the obvious occurred to me: it was highly unlikely Mycroft would survive the strain the war effort put on him, and I saw him smile sadly at me as he read my deduction on my face. "My only wish is to see Great Britain through to the end," he said. I made a face that let him know what I thought of _that_ , which caused him a chuckle, though neither of us felt much like laughing. This war has already taken my dear Watson, now it will almost certainly take my brother.

Though Watson will come back. I am sure of it. I cannot, will not, believe anything else or else I shall have nothing left.

I gave my briefing, told Mycroft that I would be staying in a hotel (his habits are far too routine for my liking, and mine too eccentric for his, so we agreed years ago we should not share rooms), and resolved to spend the night doing anything else but reading about the war. I wish I had thought to bring my violin.

I had decided to stay in London over Christmas only because I had no wish to join the throngs of Christmas travelers, and thought it best to wait. I spent much of my time at the Royal Society, where there was an excellent apiculture library I had long wished to study, and only wished I could have spent Christmas Day there as well. It was sure to be a lonely day that would only remind me of happier years at Baker Street.

Yet when I awoke late on Christmas morning, it was to a telegram from Mycroft. This was a mystery in itself, for he never marked Christmas Day, and yet his telegram asked me to meet him at Whitehall, which was undoubtedly closed for the holiday.

Well, Mycroft certainly knew how to intrigue me. I arrived at Whitehall to find it empty, save for my brother. "What is it?" I asked. I suddenly feared the worst. Perhaps he had had some dreadful news he wanted to tell me before the papers could report it. Perhaps Watson…"For heaven's sake, Mycroft, what is it?" I asked more urgently.

"Do calm down, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He gestured me toward his desk. "I only wanted to give you your Christmas gift."

"You have not given Christmas gifts since you turned ten," I said. I remembered well the tantrum I had thrown as a three-year-old when I had not received a present from my brother.

"I have made an exception," he said. He looked at the phone on his desk, where as if he had willed it, the telephone rang. He picked it up. "Yes, this is Mr. Mycroft Holmes. You have him? Good. I shall hand it over now."

I took the receiver in some confusion, though nothing could have prepared me for what I heard next. "Hello?" a voice said. I glanced up at Mycroft for confirmation. Surely it couldn't be...but of course I knew that voice, as well as I knew my own name.

"Watson?" I cried. "Watson, old fellow, is it really you?"

There was silence on the other end, then I could tell Watson must have been smiling. "Holmes! Good heavens, Holmes, it is good to hear your voice!"

"Yours as well, old friend," I said. "We have Mycroft to thank for this, I expect. But that is no matter. Are you well, Watson?"

"As well as can be expected," my friend answered. "This is a terrible business, Holmes. I can hardly believe we once thought it would be over by Christmas two years past."

"I never thought so, Watson," I said, before I could stop myself.

"Now I am sure it is you," Watson said. "You are the only one who would argue the point at such a time."

I laughed aloud. Watson has never realized he is the only man who can make me laugh in such a way. "I am glad you are alright, Watson."

"I am busy," Watson said. "We have little time to think in the midst of this. Perhaps that makes it easier. But how are you, Holmes? I imagine it is a trial for you to be at home in the middle of all this, watching."

Watson knows me well. What little I did for the intelligence effort could not compare to what he, or even Mycroft, were doing. "I have found ways to keep busy," I said, then added, for I knew he would think that I had resurrected old vices, "I consult with our intelligence operatives sometimes. I keep my bees, conduct my chemical experiments. I still play the violin, of course." Every night now, as sleep eluded me. Nighttimes were the hardest; as I listened to the air raid sirens I could only imagine what was going on in France.

"I am glad, Holmes," Watson said. "I particularly want to thank you for your letters. You've been a remarkable correspondent, old fellow. It quite makes my day when I receive one."

"I could say the same," I said, though letter writing came much easier to him than it ever had to me. I have not the patience for it. Until now.

I - oh, I didn't realize - Holmes?" Watson said. "I am afraid I need to go."

"Yes, of course," I said, though I had not the slightest idea when, or if, I should hear his voice again. "I understand."

"But it was excellent to talk to you. Do tell Mycroft thank you," Watson said. "Take care of yourself, Holmes, please?"

"Of course I shall," I said. "And you must do the same."

"Yes," he said. "Well, goodbye, Holmes."

"Goodbye, my dear Watson," I said. Mycroft took the receiver from me and tactfully looked away so that I could compose myself - I have become quite emotional in my (near) old age; it is most embarrassing.

"Thank you, Mycroft," I said. "Truly, thank you."

Mycroft simply smiled sadly. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

* * *

A/N: Of course Watson will survive the war, because I'm not heartless.


	23. Chapter 23

Prompt: Irish whiskey is better, from Stutley Constable

* * *

Holmes and I rarely frequented public houses or other places of that nature, preferring our well-stocked sideboard to the offerings and atmosphere of such places. My friend often declared grandly how he disliked places where he must rub shoulders with all manner of his fellow Londoners, and only made the effort to do so when he considered it worthwhile. Usually, this was only for concerts or the opera. "I find a live performance adds much to the music, Watson," he would say. "For each performer adds a unique touch to what is written. Interpretation, Watson, is key in matters of music." I could only agree, for I knew little of music other than which pieces I enjoyed. For me, the enjoyment of a concert was less analytical, but then Holmes possesses an admirably analytical mind that cannot be turned off at will.

I, however, had spent enough time in low pubs during my university days and my service abroad that I felt I had seen enough of such places for a lifetime. Now, if I was to go out, I much preferred to go to a restaurant for a good meal. But on one cold day just before Christmas in 1884 that Lestrade proposed we celebrate the case we had just solved together by stopping at his favorite pub. Perhaps it was the season, or perhaps we had now spent so much time with the little Inspector that I at least was beginning to consider him as a friend, that caused me to agree. Holmes, however, looked askance at me before agreeing. "It will only be for a short time," I said. "You would do well to keep Scotland Yard on your side."

"Pray refrain from business advice, Watson," was all Holmes said to this, though he did follow me to the pub quietly enough. The atmosphere inside was cheerful, full of people celebrating the Christmas holidays early.

"I shall buy the first round," Lestrade said. "What would you like, gentlemen?"

"I shall have a whiskey and soda," Holmes said. "Watson?"

"I doubt a place like this carries brandy," I said. ""I shall have the same."

"Very well," Lestrade said. "Oh, what type of whiskey shall I ask for?"

"A Scotch will do for me," I said.

"I do not suppose it matters," Holmes said, at which point Lestrade and I both stared at him in some amazement.

"Of course it matters," Lestrade said. "The right whiskey, Mr. Holmes, can make or break a drink." He laughed. "I must say, I am surprised."

Holmes bristled slightly at the inspector's loudly-stated opinion. "I am hardly an expert in alcohol, Lestrade. One is much the same as any other, as far as its effects on the body."

I supposed I should have guessed that Holmes would view alcoholic consumption through the lens of chemistry; he had already informed me that the turn of his mind was such that he must see the world through his own unique interests. Lestrade, however, still appeared aghast at this. Though he, of course, was used to Holmes only as a criminal expert and knew little of him outside of their professional connection. "I only meant, Mr. Holmes, that you have one of the most well-stocked sideboards I have ever seen," he said. "No man ever goes thirsty when visiting 221b Baker Street."

"Oh, that is all Watson," Holmes said. "Though I have found it useful for calming distraught clients on occasion."

While it was true that I was largely responsible for our stock of liquor, I protested this characterization. "You are making me out to be a drunk, Holmes!" I said, though with no malice. "You enjoy a drink in the evening much the same as I do." He made as much use of our sideboard as I did.

"Though I assure you, if it were left to me to stock it, that sideboard should be empty, or else full of the most subpar offerings," Holmes said. "Alcohol is not one of my vices."

This, at least, was true, for his main vices were tobacco and cocaine, as well as the untidiness that drove Mrs. Hudson to distraction. "Come," I said. "Let us agree on what we shall order."

"Is Scotch the best choice for a whiskey and soda?" Holmes asked.

"I think so," I said, for this was the answer any true Scotsman would give, even one such as myself, who had lived in England for most of his life. "You must make sure you choose a good one. There are many distilleries, and some that do not meet the highest standards of quality."

Lestrade shook his head. "There I must disagree with you, Dr. Watson. Scotch whiskey is certainly good, but Irish whiskey is better."

"Now, see here, Lestrade," I said. "The Irish make a very good whiskey but it is the Scottish who have raised it to an art."

Lestrade merely smiled. "You forget, Doctor, that it was the Irish who invented it."

"So it fell to the Scottish to perfect it," I answered with some heat.

"Gentlemen," Holmes said. "I hardly see the importance of this argument. There is much history shared between Ireland and Scotland, after all."

"Yes, but you, Mr. Holmes, are English and as such do not understand these matters. There is no history of whiskey in England," Lestrade said. I laughed to see the highly affronted look on my friend's face at Lestrade's abrupt dismissal, yet I could not fault the inspector. Whiskey held a very important cultural place for those of Irish or Scottish descent, one that simply could not be matched by those of English heritage.

"It is much like wine is for the French," I said, for I could think of no other comparison that might be apt.

"Come, Watson, wine as nearly as a religion to the French," he said.

Lestrade laughed as well. "Well, that is true, Mr. Holmes. You know I am French as well as Irish, on my mother's side."

"As am I, Lestrade," Holmes said. I confess I could not have been more surprised if he had suddenly unveiled a secret wife hidden in our attic, and I stared at him in shock. Holmes appeared rather amused at my reaction. "Is that so surprising, Watson?"

"Well, no, I suppose not," I said. I could not very well admit that I could not fathom where he had come from, and had lately taken to thinking he had sprung fully formed into the world, with no history. I could not think what sort of people had given rise to him.

Lestrade, however, was more blunt. "I could hardly imagine where you had come from, Mr. Holmes."

"It is a simple story," Holmes said. "My father's family were country squires, hardly any different from many English families. My grandmother on my mother's side, however, was French, and fled to England during the Reign of Terror. I am sure many have such histories. Your own is probably not so different, Lestrade."

I confess I was utterly fascinated, for Holmes had never so much as mentioned his family, for he seemed so utterly alone in the world. Mostly by inclination, it is true, but perhaps his family was long dead and he was thus forced to make his way in the world alone. But before I invented a history for my fellow lodger, Lestrade laughed heartily. "You are right; you and I are hardly any different after all, Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes heaved a great sigh, sending me a long-suffering look that said clearly he disagreed with this statement. "Were you not going to get us drinks, Lestrade?" he asked.

"What? Oh, yes, of course," Lestrade said. "No hard feelings, Doctor? I am sure we can agree to disagree on the matter of Scotch or Irish whiskey."

"Yes, indeed," I said.

"Besides, I am sure we can both agree that American whiskey is the worst of the lot," Lestrade said.

"Well, he is certainly right about that," I said to Holmes.

* * *

A/N: Apologies to anyone who likes American whiskey. I'm on Watson's side in this debate :)


	24. Chapter 24

Prompt; Irene Adler meets Holmes many years later after A Scandal in Bohemia, from Ennui Enigma

A/N: I hope this counts as "many" years. Watson seems to suggest that Irene Adler was dead by the time he published A Scandal in Bohemia in 1891, so I stretched it to the utmost for this response.

Also Merry Christmas for everyone who celebrated today :)

* * *

Irene Norton, née Adler, had not thought of Mr. Sherlock Holmes in many years. Her life had of late been a happy mix of domestic bliss, professional successes (for Godfrey had no objection to his wife continuing to sing upon the stage if she so wished) and adventure in the far-flung places of the world. Thanks to her engagements at the best opera houses in the world, she and Godfrey were able to live a life of leisure, and spent six months a year in travel. They had seen places many could only dream of. Paris, Rome, Moscow, Stockholm, even the Pyramids and Constantinople. It was exactly the life she had dreamed of, though it had taken an odd route for her to get there.

Yet every so often, as they sat home and reminisced, Irene could not help but remember the very odd role Mr. Holmes had played in their wedding, though he had at the time been working against her, engaged by the Grand Duke and future King of Bohemia, who had no doubt filled Mr. Holmes's head full of nonsense about her motives and jealousy regarding the Duke's marriage. It had been a thorny few days, as she remembered, and Godfrey had been most afraid for their future. But Irene always had an instinct as to people, and Mr. Holmes had been presented to her as one who cared for truth above all. By throwing herself and her story at Mr. Holmes's formidable reasoning power, she had formed the idea that he would come to see her side. And so he had. She should thank him, truly. Had the Duke wished, he could have had Mr. Holmes chase her and Godfrey across Europe, but upon realizing that the unwished for publication of the photograph was not going to happen, Mr. Holmes had apparently considered his role in the case finished. In truth, Irene thought much more often of poor Clothilde, now Grand Duchess of Cassel-Felstein and future Queen of Bohemia. By all accounts the poor girl was frightfully dull, all propriety and delicacy. Well, hardly anyone could be raised in that family with its obsession for morality and remain at all interesting. But it still did not mean she deserved to be tied to a grand buffoon like Grand Duke Wilhelm for life. Undoubtedly she was finding his libertine ways a trial, and he was unlikely to have much care for her. No, Irene considered herself well away from all of them.

She was, by summer of 1891, engaged for a number of performances at the Teatro dell'Opera in Rome. Rome was one of her favorite cities; the crowds were effusive in their praise and the mix of ancient buildings and modern luxury made the city the perfect background to perform her favorite dramatic roles. She loved to wander the streets, taking life slowly, with Godfrey on her arm and stopping for a long midday meal, Italian style.

It was on one of the long, hot days on which Irene did not have a performance that she made a day of wandering the streets, eventually arriving at the Borghese Gardens and observing the bustle of the city around her. Most of the visitors were not Italian; in fact, they mostly seemed to be young, wealthy men on their Grand Tours. Irene amused herself by guessing the nationalities of the visitors - the French tended to be artists coming to copy the works of the great masters with their paints and easels, while the English declared grandly that all was better in England - when she happened to notice someone odd. A tall man endeavoring to hide his height by sitting low on a bench, his face half hidden by a hat. The figure gave Irene a distinctly odd feeling, both that he was somehow familiar to her but also that he was in some way a threat. The feeling was one she had long ago learned to listen to, and she left the Borghese Gardens immediately, trying to imagine why a stranger on a bench should give her such an odd feeling.

It was not until later, as she recounted the feeling to Godfrey that she realized and stopped mid-sentence before laughing aloud. "I've been silly," she said to Godfrey. "It was Mr. Holmes. He was in disguise, or else it would not have taken me this long to recognize him."

"Mr. Holmes?" Godfrey asked, his brow furrowing. He did not seem to find this as amusing as she did. "Whatever is he doing here? You don't think he is still on our tail?"

Irene adored when Godfrey used American expressions he had picked up from her. "No, of course not. Why should he be? It has been three years since we left London and the Duke was married." Mr. Holmes had made the capital mistake at the time of assuming that Godfrey did not know of her former connection with the Duke. She suspected it would surprise many to know that Godfrey knew and loved her anyway. "I hardly imagine the Duke has kept him on retainer all these years. Besides, you've seen how busy he's been." Mr. Holmes's name had shown up frequently in the newspapers since he had accidentally been part of their wedding, always in connection with a grand success. It was these stories that often triggered their amused memories of their hasty wedding. "I doubt he is concerned with us anymore."

"Yes, that is true," Godfrey said, though he still looked unsure, which in turn made Irene think over the encounter. Perhaps it was not him. She was used to recognizing people in disguise, but Mr. Holmes was extraordinarily skilled at the art - she would have relished the chance to act opposite him. But, if it was indeed him, it might really be more than a chance meeting. Coincidences were rare, in her experience.

"It would be an extraordinary coincidence if I just happened across him, of all people, in the middle of Rome," she admitted. "Perhaps I should make sure." Though she did not know how she would do that. If he was in disguise, Irene could hardly count on finding him again. If Sherlock Holmes did not want to be found, he would not be.

Godfrey smiled reassuringly. "Well, in any case, I'm sure it will be fine. We escaped him once. If he is indeed after us, we shall do the same thing again." He got up and hugged her from behind, kissing her cheek. "You are quite his equal, my dear."

"High praise," Irene said dryly, before changing the subject. "Tomorrow we should go to this lovely restaurant I found by the Pantheon after my performance." She did so enjoy that life did not stop at nine in Italy the way it did in England or America. Perhaps she and Godfrey should think about settling here permanently.

Still, it was hard to think about anything while unsure if Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, following her. Irene and Godfrey had only just returned from their meal the next night when she dropped her handkerchief, which promptly flew into a nearly by alley due to the wind. Irene hastily ran after it - the handkerchief had been a gift from Edwin Booth, who had praised her first performance in New York - when she saw him. Sherlock Holmes, hurrying past the alley, still in the same disguise she had seen him wearing in the Borghese Gardens. Irene smiled and stopped before going back to Godfrey. "Good-night, Mr. Holmes," she said, loud enough so he could hear.

His reaction, however, was unexpected. Mr. Holmes turned around in some surprise, his expression frozen in fear. Irene could make out his eyes widening as he recognized her before he hurried away, to be swallowed up by the Roman dusk. She took Godfrey's arm as she returned to him. "Well," she said. "I can tell you for sure that Mr. Holmes is not here because of us."

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Because he looked terrified for his life when I called his name," Irene said. "That was not acting, nor was it the fear of being recognized." She knew the difference, and she knew acting from truth. Mr. Holmes, she was sure, was in mortal danger. "Whatever he is doing here, he is running for his life."

Godfrey glanced behind them to where Mr. Holmes had disappeared. "Well, I pity the men who are after him, whoever they may be," he said. "I doubt they will last the month."

Irene laughed. "You are right, my love. Mr. Holmes is not easily beaten. I only managed to bring him to a draw." They walked on, until Godfrey stopped to purchase an English newspaper, which he disappeared behind as soon as they returned to the hotel. Irene used the time to clean the jewelry she had worn onstage; stage makeup and lights did a horrible job on her best pieces, when Godfrey suddenly spit out his nightly tea all over his newspaper.

"Good heavens," he said, spluttering. "Irene, you must see this."

Irene hurried over to see a prominent death notice and her eyes widened when she saw whose. The detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes of London, age thirty-seven, over the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. There was little else, no relations or explanation, so it was clearly quite sudden. Irene stared at Godfrey in some shock. She realized they were now undoubtedly some of the only people who knew the famous detective was alive. Godfrey seemed to be thinking the same, for he asked, "Are you going to inform anyone?"

Irene thought over the two times she had now seen Mr. Holmes. How he had been in disguise both times. How very afraid he had looked when she called his name and he knew he had been recognized. How very unlike the masterful detective she had been warned against. "No," she said. "He must be engaged in a matter of life-and-death to resort to this. I can only wish him luck. I expect he will need it."


	25. Chapter 25

Prompt: Therapy, from Hades Lord of the Dead

A/N: No one's ever quite pinned down when and where exactly Watson was wounded, and so I based this on the theory that his shoulder wound dates from Afghanistan and his leg wound came later, most likely on a particularly dangerous case. I figured if Doyle couldn't be bothered to be consistent I get to play around with his inconsistencies. I may actually expand this into a full story someday, because more ideas for it kept popping into my head until I had to cut huge chunks out of it.

If anyone is interested, the Chartered Society of Physiotherapists is the oldest professional society for physical therapists in the UK and was founded in 1894.

* * *

I have never given the study of medicine much thought; indeed, I have never had to, for I have spent much of the past ten years living with a doctor who can certainly tell me anything I wish to know. I am fortunate enough besides to have an iron constitution and rarely have to worry about my own health (which Watson has always done for me).

I have had ample cause of late to give medicine more than only a passing thought. My profession is a dangerous one, and I have had more near misses than most would believe by reading those luridly exaggerated stories Watson writes. But I have always been content to take such risks on _myself_. Though perhaps it is more accurate to say that I have always intended it to be such, and that is very rarely has been. Whenever I have told Watson that I engaged on a case far too dangerous for him to accompany me, he has always responded that if it is too dangerous for him to come, it is surely too dangerous for me to go alone. Well, I certainly could not argue with that - Watson possesses his own brand of logic that I occasionally find difficult to argue with. But this case was supposed to be simple. A gang of opium smugglers who needed to be caught in the act so that they could be arrested. It was an easy thing. Watson and I were to dress up as sailors meeting with their contacts in the smuggling ring, thus leading them directly to Inspector Bradstreet and his men. How the deuce was I to know that one of the smugglers had positioned himself among the crates, and that when he realized who we were, was perfectly in position to stab Watson directly in his leg? We were fortunate to escape with our lives.

Though, it turned out, not fortunate enough. The case was, at that point, over quickly enough, but the wait in the hospital felt interminable, with doctors telling me about the Achilles tendon and saying phrases such as "permanent injury" and "will not walk unaided again."

I did not believe them. Watson has survived so much, and his shoulder wound hardly pains him anymore. It seemed unbelievable to me that he would not simply recover from this as he has all else. I immediately threw myself into reading Watson's medical textbooks,searching for a better answer, sure that I could unravel this as I would a case. l I do believe I could draw an accurate diagram of the ankle and calf and explain exactly what it is the Achilles tendon connects to. Though in the end, I only came to the same conclusion: a permanent injury to the Achilles tendon prevents someone from walking without assistance for the rest of their life. In some cases, it prevents walking entirely. I have ample evidence to support this. Watson has been sleeping in my bedroom these past three weeks, as it was difficult enough for us to climb the first flight of stairs when he was discharged from the hospital and he surely could not make the second. I have been relegated to the settee, though I have slept little since then. We have hardly left Baker Street since that terrible day. Watson has not left at all, and I have only finished those cases I was already engaged upon, refusing all new ones until such time as Watson can join me again.

I heard the now-distinct step of Watson's pronounced limp and heavy walking stick, and after a few moments (quite a long time, actually, he is undoubtedly in a great deal of pain) he appeared at the sitting room door. I did not need much observation to deduce that he did not sleep, for it was obvious by his haggard expression, though he still gave me a tired smile. "I shall consider it a victory that I managed to dress myself today," he said.

So that was what had taken him so long. Well, it is indeed a victory, for he has required a steady hand to do so until now. "Though I think I may have pushed myself a trifle hard," he admitted, wincing as he stretched his leg.

"Do not exert yourself, Watson," I murmured. Offering comfort or sympathy is not my strongest point, and I have hardly an idea how to proceed. I remember well what it was like when Watson returned from Afghanistan, though compared to now, he almost seemed better then. He was not so trapped in our shared rooms then, and I saw him gaze wistfully out the window. "Mrs. Hudson is due to bring breakfast up soon," I said. "You should probably eat something, dear fellow."

"I know now how you have always felt when I urge you to eat," Watson said. "Still, breakfast does sound like a decent idea." He grasped his walking stick, but stopped before attempting to stand. "I am afraid I shall require your assistance, Holmes," he said, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

"Of course," I said, extending a hand to help him up. He grasped it tightly, and held onto my arm so that we could maneuver around the settee to the table. "You are welcome to my seat, Watson," I said. I ordinarily sat facing the window, with Watson across from me facing the fire, but it seemed too far a distance.

But Watson steeled himself. "I have already taken your bedroom, Holmes," he said, though he was breathing hard with the exertion. "I shall sit at my own place at the table."

"As you wish," I said. He sat down heavily, and after a moment seemed to recover his breath.

"Thank you," he said.

"Think nothing of it, Watson," I said.

"I should probably move back upstairs soon," he said.

"Watson, my bedroom is yours for as long as you require it," I said. "Please do not think you need to leave."

"Well, Holmes, I have to say, walls adorned with the portraits of famous criminals hardly provide the best atmosphere for recovery," he said, and I could not help a smile. My Watson has not lost his pawky sense of humor. "But it is not fair. You have not moved into my bedroom. You are still on the settee."

I shrugged. "That hardly matters. I often spent nights on the settee in any case." I did not say that I remained in the sitting room in case he should need something. He seemed to have forgotten that he could hardly get out of bed the first few nights and needed someone to bring him anything he required. Even now, I can sometimes hear him whimpering in pain in the night, and I considered that it was a good idea for me to remain within easy reach. Mrs. Hudson says she could hardly have imagined me showing such concern for anyone, though I do not know what possessed her to confess this to me. I suspect we have all been thrown into uproar thanks to Watson's injury.

Though it would seem she is wrong, for I then said what was exactly the wrong thing to say. "You cannot make the stairs in your condition, Watson. Surely you see that," I said. Watson is no perfect reasoning machine, but he has his own logic, and I thought he would see the rationality behind this.

It would appear not, for Watson threw me a dark look. "Am I to remain in your bedroom indefinitely? Expect you to turn your life upside down for me?" he said angrily. "I do not want you, of all people, to coddle me, Holmes!"

I stared at him in some amazement. I could not begin to untangle the utter illogic of such statements. My life turned upside down for him? I am well aware of my faults, both as a fellow-lodger and as a friend, and I am convinced no one other than Watson could be both to me. It is his life that has been turned upside down by his association with me. He has not practiced his profession in years, instead assisting me on cases full time. He has put up with my chemical experiments, my violin solos and my indoor gunfire, and now he has been grievously, permanently injured in my service. I can do nothing else _but_ reciprocate where I can. Coddle him? Why, he spent years patiently coaxing me out of my dependence on cocaine, something no other doctor would, or even could, have done. In my view, we are evenly matched in what we owe each other and it never occurred to me that he would see it differently.

All this I turned over in my head without saying a word of it out loud, while Watson continued to glare at me, before he seemed to lose all his energy and slumped down in his chair. "Forgive me, Holmes. I do not know where that outburst came from," he said.

"It is forgotten," I said. "I should have remembered from your return from Afghanistan, that pity is unwelcome." It was easier then, perhaps because I did not know him so well then. Perhaps because his injuries were not my fault then.

Watson smiled. "But truly, I was unfair to you. You have not shown me pity. You've barely shown me sympathy."

This was not at all what I expected him to say, and I looked up indignantly. Sympathy does not come naturally to me but I thought I had done my best to not appear completely heartless in the face of my dearest friend's permanent injury. To my surprise, Watson laughed out loud. "That is not what I meant. Effusive sympathy would be unusual for you. From you, Holmes, I should have known it was false. What you've shown me, in your way, is _care._ "

I was suddenly seized with the urge to take back every disparaging statement I have ever made about Watson's observational abilities. It is true he cannot tell a banker from a sailor but he is most adept at observing me. "It is only fair, Watson," I said quietly. "It is due to me you are injured. Had I observed that smuggler, I should have given you enough warning."

"I have always known there was danger in accompanying you," Watson answered. "Though I doubt I shall have the chance again." He threw a dark look at his walking stick. "You would not want someone who can hardly walk slowing you down anyway."

Actually, perhaps Watson _is_ a poor an observer as I have always said. How he could ever think I shall not want him at my side is quite beyond my ability to understand. "I do not want to hear you say that again," I said imperiously, causing Watson to look up in some shock.

"But, Holmes, even with such recovery as I was promised, I will not walk unaided again," he said.

"So you shall accompany me on those cases which do not require running," I said. "Which pose little danger until you are better able to keep up. You see, I have not been idle while you have been laid up, old boy." I had done much research, and I retrieved a pamphlet from the floor.

" _The Chartered Society of Physiotherapy_ ," he read aloud. "I have heard of this."

"I have been reading about it," I said. "They specialize in exercises, massages, techniques which are said to help those with injuries like yours regain their mobility. Perhaps not all of it, but more than you could regain on your own, certainly."

Watson looked through the pamphlet, and I was relieved to see some interest in his expression. I had been afraid he would simply give up (I should have known my Watson better). Moreover, I wanted a doctor to look over what they were advertising. I knew only that it sounded like the miracle he needed, but it would take a medical man to know if it was indeed true.

"I have read of their successes," Watson said. "Perhaps it would not give me the ability to walk freely, but it might at least help me learn to maneuver without leaning on you constantly." He did look slightly more hopeful, and therefore much more like himself, I was gratified to notice. "It says here that it takes much time, with practice done at home," Watson said, and he turned to me much as he would have turned to the family of an injured patient. "Are you prepared for that, Holmes? You would have to assist me."

"You have assisted me often enough, Watson," I said. "It is only fair that I do in return."

Watson smiled - at last, a true smile. "I have nothing to lose by trying this physiotherapy. It might help, and if it does not, well, I will hardly be worse off than I am now. I must confess I was hoping this injury did not mean the end of my assisting you on your cases. I would miss it very much."

"As would I, Watson," I said. "You know I am lost without my Boswell, after all."


	26. Chapter 26

Prompt: Dancing, from SheWhoScrawls

* * *

When I first took rooms with Sherlock Holmes and he explained his unusual profession to me, he assured me that his role was that of a consultant rather than that of an active detective. "Such things are for Scotland Yard," he said, rather grandly. "The perfect criminal reasoner can uncover the motives and solutions for a crime from the facts alone." He claimed he only occasionally needed to stir himself to visit a crime scene, and then only to confirm some theory that required him to personally see the scene.

Later, when Holmes declared to me that criminal investigation was something his brother Mycroft could not do because it would require "legwork," I wisely refrained from reminding him of his own early description of his profession. Yet in those early days, it is true that we hardly needed to leave Baker Street in many cases and rarely engaged with criminals face to face.

By the summer of 1883, Holmes had a thriving business as private investigator, though perhaps not all the cases were unusual or grotesque enough for his liking. He frequently bemoaned the lack of ambitious criminals to test his formidable intellect against, though we were on a case nearly every week. By this time, I was accompanying him as a matter of course and even Scotland Yard no longer remarked on my presence. It was on one of these early cases that Holmes and I found ourselves on the tail of a man disguising himself as a chimney sweep to gain entry to wealthy homes in order to abscond with their jewels. "A simple enough case, Watson," Holmes had said with a sniff. "Though there are factors of interest. The fellow certainly chooses his targets with care, for not every home that invited him to clean their chimneys found their jewels stolen." In order to catch him in the act, Holmes had followed him to more than one house, only to find that he had taken nothing. Tonight, he was sure that the fellow was planning to commit a theft and so had asked me to accompany him. "I would feel easier in my mind knowing you and your service revolver were behind me," Holmes admitted. "This fellow is quite twice my size." Then he turned his formidable gaze on me. "Though I beg you, remain out of sight until I give you the signal. It is quite possible you shall not be needed, for I have some small skills of self-defense myself."

I agreed, and we waited among the bushes of the house next door until our jewel thief appeared. I reflected that it was hardly the most dignified (or indeed, comfortable) position for a gentleman to be in, but I was caught up in the excitement of the case and at that moment, cared not at all if the Queen herself were to find two seemingly respectable gentlemen crouched among bushes like criminals ourselves.

It was some time before the thief left the house, and Holmes silently emerged from our hiding place, trusting to the dark and the ever-present fog to hide his presence from the criminal. I followed, though at some paces behind, and for a time, we seemed invisible to our quarry. The man led us down one street, then another, until at last I no longer recognized what part of London we were in. After turning one last time, we found ourselves in a deserted alleyway, and I realized the fiend had trapped us. The thief turned around, and through the fog I could see his cruel grin. "I was warned against you, Mr. Holmes," he said. "It wasn't hard to tell you were tailing me. Seems you're not so clever after all, to get yourself trapped here."

Holmes never turned around, merely waved me aside with the barest movement of his hand, and I realized the fellow had not seen me, concentrating as he was on Holmes. I stepped back into the shadows, watching with some trepidation. The fellow was quite as tall as Holmes, though considerably heavier, and I slipped my hand into my pocket to find my service revolver, should it be needed. "I wager you have the family collection of jewels in your pocket," Holmes said pleasantly. "The Tidwells are said to have a marvelous collection with many varied pieces and much history. Surely it proved too great a temptation for you."

"It will fetch a pretty price on the market," the fellow said, smiling. With no warning, he then lunged at my friend, who ducked so that the fiend should overbalance. But he righted himself more quickly than I anticipated, and returned for a second blow. I held my breath, watching the fight unfold vigorously before me. I tightened my grip on my revolver, but Holmes had not yet given me the signal, and so I could do nothing, even though it seemed to me that he was coming off the worse in this fight. At one point, the jewel thief nearly had my friend around his neck, were it not that Holmes managed to slip out of his grip. Each landed a few blows, though neither seemed ready to give up, and I began to contemplate whether I should intervene, signal or not. I even opened my mouth to cry out a warning to Holmes when I saw the thief prepare for what looked like a rugby tackle, sure than my friend should end up slammed against the brick well. But Holmes had apparently anticipated this, for he executed what, to my eyes, was a near-perfect pirouette, so that the thief slammed into the wall instead and stood up looking dazed. Before he regained his bearings, my friend landed a last blow on his head so he crumpled to the ground, and at last Holmes straightened his collar, looking satisfied.

I, however, was aghast. "I thought he had the better of you more than once!" I said.

"Nonsens, Watson," Holmes replied. "I knew exactly what I was doing, and was never out of control. You know I have some training in the martial arts, particularly boxing and baritsu."

"And singlesticks," I added, for my friend had often discoursed to me about the usefulness of such skills.

"Precisely," he said. "You must have recognized that he was exerting himself to a greater degree. I knew if I could simply tire him out, I would have my chance, and so I did."

"You led him here," I said, realizing that the various turns we had taken to get to this dark alley were not the thief leading us, but my friend driving him where he wished to go.

"You are improving, Watson," Holmes said. "I required a dead-end street for this trap to work, and so I merely allowed him to think he was leading us, while in fact I was taking us exactly where I needed to go."

"I thought we were lost," I said, for I still did not recognize the area we were in.

"I am never lost in London," Holmes said. "We are merely four blocks from Charing Cross Road."

This was welcome news, for I did not relish wandering London for the rest of the night. "But, Holmes, there is one thing I do not understand," I said. "That pirouette was surely not anything you learned in your study of martial arts."

"It was not," Holmes said. "I do not claim great skill in the area, but in my youth I was trained to dance, as many gentry boys are. I have found the skills useful on occasion and have kept in practice for exactly this reason."

"Dancing?" I repeated. My friend had no artistic whims or interests, save for his violin playing, and I confess I had difficulty in imagining him dancing. Though by this point, I supposed I should no longer have been surprised when he revealed some skill I was previously unaware of. I shook my head. "You have fewer limits than I thought, my dear Holmes."

"It seems to me there has been little development in the art of dance, Watson. It is most disappointing, for it bears much similarity to the martial arts, and I am sure that it could be developed into a very efficient form of fighting in its own right," Holmes said. "Perhaps I shall do so one day."

"There is a monograph I am sure will sell well," I said dryly. I had yet to see Holmes sell any of his monographs, and the copies he was given by his publishers littered our sitting room until I had hardly any room for books I actually wanted to read.

Holmes merely laughed and took my arm to lead me to Charing Cross Road. "Come, Watson, there is a decanter of brandy waiting at Baker Street for us. I have only to send a telegram to Lestrade informing him of the jewel thief's whereabouts, then we shall have our nightcap and a late start the morning.


	27. Chapter 27

Prompt: Sherlock Holmes' brother, Mycroft, reveals what his favourite candy is through a story of explanation, from Ennui Enigma

A/N: After much research, I discovered that fudge was invented in America during the 1880s, and that most other Victorian candies were a little strange for my tastes (but I am a chocoholic).

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was sure of two things in his life. That he preferred his days to pass in as routine a way as possible, which he had largely made sure they did, and that they would never do so whenever his brother turned up at the Diogenes Club for a visit.

On this occasion, Mycroft had barely settled into his chair with the evening paper before his brother's tall, lank form was towering over him. Mycroft threw him an annoyed look but followed him to the Strangers Room. "What is it, Sherlock?" he asked.

"I only wished to tell you I have finished the Hamilton case and you were quite right. There was no crime involved in the theft of their prize silver plate, only a new dog with a fondness for shiny objects. The plate - and the dog - have been returned safely."

"Bravo," Mycroft said, taking out his snuffbox and waving Sherlock into a seat. "But you have come without Dr. Watson today," he remarked, only because it was so strange. Since introducing Mycroft to his fellow lodger last year, Sherlock had hardly shown up at the Diogenes without Dr. Watson in tow.

"He professed a wish to read the newspaper in peace, as he put it," Sherlock said. "I imagine he is quite happy to have me gone, as I filled up the room with sulfur this morning so he could not be idle with the day's news. I have never understood, Mycroft, why otherwise intelligent men spend so much of their time reading news that can have no relevance to their lives. It is all so utterly trivial!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He could name no fewer than three revolutions, several battles, a possible economic crisis in America and an ongoing battle in Parliament over trade, each of which had been prominent features in the day's newspapers. But of course, Sherlock considered nothing but the criminal news of any interest, and all else was therefore trivial to him. "You must tell him not to be so intimidated of me," Mycroft answered mildly, for that was surely the real reason Dr. Watson had not accompanied his friend.

"He is not intimidated by you," Sherlock protested.

"Come, Sherlock, you could not fail to observe that he is," Mycroft said. "He hardly talks while in my company." Never mind that Mycroft knew that he was a rather intimidating figure to begin with. Only last week he had given Her Majesty something of a fright when he entered a conference room unexpectedly, though she was so unusually short that Mycroft estimated he equalled three of her.

"Well, you could certainly engage him more," Sherlock said. "You must have noticed that you and I do little else other than discuss my cases when we meet. Watson hears quite enough of that at Baker Street."

No mention that perhaps Sherlock could find something else to talk about. But Mycroft had to concede the point that he had hardly any idea what to talk about with a retired Army Doctor. They discussed Sherlock's cases because it was one of the only subjects they held in common, though Dr. Watson always remained quiet during these talks. Perhaps that strategy of bringing the good doctor out was not working. "You know socialization is hardly my strongest point," Mycroft said. "But seeing that the fellow is your friend, you are right that I can surely try a little harder." Sherlock looked satisfied, though Mycroft spent much of the next week contemplating how to do so. He was not, and never had been, the most sociable of men, and while he was loath to admit that he found his brother's perfectly ordinary fellow lodger to be one of the most confounding problems he had faced in some time, it was nevertheless true. Mycroft was accustomed to Sherlock, but Sherlock along with Dr. Watson were an entirely different matter. It certainly seemed as if Dr. Watson he would be a permanent fixture in Sherlock's life from now on, and Mycroft quietly reevaluated the image he held in his mind of his brother so that it now included Dr. Watson. That should make it easier to include him in the conversation whenever Sherlock decided to drop in next. How difficult could it be? Obviously Sherlock managed to carry on a conversation with the man, though having had much experience of his brother's conversation, Mycroft was not entirely sure Dr. Watson did not simply sit silently and listen as Sherlock pontificated on whatever subject had caught his fancy.

Two weeks later, Sherlock arrived at the Diogenes Club unannounced (if he ever did announce his presence in any location, Mycroft was quite sure the Empire would fall) with Dr. Watson hurrying behind. "Mycroft, I was wondering if I might make use of the Diogenes Club's excellent library. There is an excellent German book on the concentration of sulfur in volcanic ash that I believe is held here and nowhere else in the country."

"You may, of course, use whatever books you wish," Mycroft said. Due to its unusual population of members, the Diogenes library was large and eccentric, with many texts that were difficult to find elsewhere. Sherlock was one of its most frequent users. "Though I imagine Dr. Watson does not want to sit here and watch you research in German," he added.

"Watson is here for your excellent chef," Sherlock said. "I told him we would dine here. I hope that is alright."

Mycroft smiled. He had, as founding member, hired the Diogenes chef himself, and made sure the man was of the very highest ability. "You are welcome to, though I insist you dine as well, Sherlock. You know you do not take care of yourself." Sherlock threw him a dark look, though Dr. Watson smiled conspiratorially at Mycroft.

"I see you also try to force him to have a care for his health," Dr. Watson said, in what was undoubtedly the first unprompted sentence he had ever said to Mycroft directly.

"Someone must," Mycroft said. "Though you have rather taken that burden off me recently, and are doing better at it too." Running after Sherlock was so dreadfully _tiring_ ; he was quite glad that someone with more patience was doing it instead. "Oh, but before we dine, you simply must try these. They were sent to me by a colleague in America." He brought out a small box from his pocket and opened it to reveal several small squares of chocolate.

"What are they?" Dr. Watson asked curiously. "Chocolate?"

"Chocolate fudge," Mycroft said. "Here, do try one. They are most delicious. I believe I have found my very favorite candy." The sweet, rich chocolate was exactly the right consistency, thick and creamy, and each one was different. Some were mixed with caramel, others with almond, or else plain chocolate.

Dr. Watson took a piece and smiled upon trying it. "Oh, that is very good. I am very fond of chocolate, and I do not think I have ever had so fine a piece."

"The secret, apparently, is in the mixture. You see, the chocolate is mixed with cream and sugar, heated and then allowed to cool. Deceptively simple," Mycroft explained. He had, upon receiving the box, immediately had the Diogenes chef try one to identify the process so it could be replicated. "Apparently it is becoming all the rage in America, and I believe I have the first box that was ever sent to England. A colleague who I once worked with on some small matters of domestic interest to both our countries sent it to me in thanks." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, which Mycroft took to mean that he had not told Dr. Watson of his position within government. No matter. Matters of domestic interest were a vague enough cover and Dr. Watson seemed none the wiser.

"They are delicious," Watson said. "I have always been fond of toffee as well."

"There is an excellent toffee maker two blocks down from here," Mycroft said. "They deliver to me weekly."

"Mycroft knows anywhere there is decent food to be had," Sherlock said. "I have never gone in for candy, myself."

" _I_ could have deduced that, Holmes," Dr. Watson said, causing Mycroft to laugh. Sherlock was so excessively thin that it seemed impossible he ate anything at all. Though Mycroft was surprised when Dr. Watson turned to give him the conspiratorial look he usually shared with Sherlock. Perhaps he was not doing so badly, trying not to appear intimidating.

Who would have guessed it took only some well-timed pieces of fudge? Mycroft resolved to write to that fellow Roosevelt for more, in order to send Dr. Watson his own box. Sherlock, too, Mycroft supposed, though he knew his brother had little appreciation for anything that did not smell foul or attempt a murder. Dr. Watson, however, appeared to be an entirely different matter, and Mycroft was rather glad that if his brother had to choose a friend, it was at least someone who could appreciate the finer things in life.

* * *

A/N: During the late 1880s Theodore Roosevelt was serving in the Harrison administration on the US Civil Service Commission. He was the only prominent political figure I could come up with from the time period, actually. Though I guess it's find of fitting, because TR does tend to stand out.


	28. Chapter 28

Prompt: Dirty tricks, from KnightFury

* * *

Our estimable landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was well accustomed to Holmes and my habits. This in itself was quite a feat, as Holmes was one of the most slovenly tenants to ever rent rooms in London, and kept highly unusual hours that varied greatly from day to day. Mrs. Hudson was the only person I have seen who managed to predict, often to the minute, when exactly Holmes should like his tea, regardless of the fact that this was at a different time each day, when he wanted his tea at all. Lest anyone think I am being unfair, I must also confess to a messy Bohemianism in my own room and a certain inconsistency in the hours I kept. Between the two of us, I did not believe we could have found a better landlady in all of London.

Each summer, however, Mrs. Hudson took herself off to Cornwall to visit her sister's family for two to three weeks, leaving us in the charge of our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Turner. This worthy lady had her own tenant to look after, a Mr. Edwards who worked in some form of banking and kept regular hours, seldom making any sound that would announce his presence, so that she looked in on us for a few hours in the morning and the afternoon before returning to her own home. Holmes and I were generally happy about this, for Mrs. Turner was not the cook Mrs. Hudson was, and so we preferred to dine out when left in her charge. She was probably just as pleased about this as we were, for whenever she did venture up to our sitting room to bring us tea, she looked horrified at the piles of papers strewn everywhere, and once could not resist attempting to organize them. This had the unfortunate result that I had to listen to Holmes complaining about how no one understood his methods of organization and that only he could be allowed to organize his papers as he put them back in exactly the same state of disarray they had been in previously. To my eye, he had no method of organization to his papers, and I had not moved them in the first place, so I perceived this as rather unfair. After Mrs. Turner then found several criminal relics in succession in both the breadbox and the butter dish, she wisely decided to leave us largely to our own devices, and I suspect Mrs. Hudson received an earful upon her return each year.

But is was during the summer before my marriage that we very nearly drove Mrs. Turner from our house forever. Holmes and I had just returned from an evening at the theater, and he was animatedly discussing the history of comic opera versus dramatic opera, when we came face to face with our little fellow-lodger, Basil of Baker Street, standing on the table in the hallway. Having been long used to the little mice who shared our living space, I smiled in greeting, only to realize that Basil looked quite angry. He was tapping his foot impatiently, glaring at us in a way that quite matched any of Holmes's darkest looks. "Basil, whatever is the matter?" I asked.

"This, Doctor, is the matter," Basil said indignantly, gesturing down at his feet. I realized he was standing on a mousetrap that had been cleverly tied so it would not snap shut. "I found this in the kitchen, ready to spring. Thankfully, I am light of foot, or else I should be trapped in it! I have rendered it harmless, as you can see, so that Dawson will not stumble upon it as I did."

"Mrs. Turner must have set it," I said to Holmes. "She does not know about Basil and Dawson."

Holmes glowered. "I shall have a talk with her," he said. "It certainly will not do for her to drive you and Dawson out, Basil."

"Thank you," Basil said grandly. "I must say, I prefer Mrs. Hudson."

Holmes smirked, and I leaned down to Basil. "So do I, little fellow. She shall be back in a week or two."

"Oh, good," Basil said in relief. "I was afraid you had driven her out!"

I burst out laughing at this, though Holmes merely looked back and said, "It takes more than some misplaced criminal relics and violin solos to drive Mrs. Hudson away. She is made of stronger stuff than that."

I later heard him having a heated argument with Mrs. Turner on the subject of mousetraps, after which he returned to our room looking rather defeated. "Well?" I asked. "Has she come to her senses?"

"I think not, Watson, for my arguments had no effect save to convince her that we have a rodent problem," Holmes said. "I think she shall only increase her efforts from now on."

For the next week, I kept a lookout both for our little fellow lodgers and any efforts Mrs. Turner might have taken to rid the house of them. I intercepted two more mousetraps in the hallway, while Holmes found some makeshift sticky paper on the floor of the kitchen. But it was not until midnight on the night before Mrs. Hudson was due to return that I was awoken by an indignant squeak. "Dr. Watson, what is the meaning of this?" Basil asked, standing on my night table with Dr. Dawson beside him. They were both wearing nightcaps and Dawson held a tiny candle.

"Good heavens, whatever is the matter?" I asked, suddenly wide awake.

"I have found these!" Basil said, showing me the candy he was very fond of, dusted in a strange white powder.

"Why, this is poison!" I said in some shock, after examining the candy closely.

"Yes, it is," Basil said. "We very nearly ate some, you know. Fortunately, I am blessed with a sharp sense of smell. It is most useful in my work, is it not, Dawson?"

"Indeed it is, Basil," Dawson said. "Though perhaps most useful tonight. That was quite strong enough to kill us both."

"Mousetraps, sticky paper, now poison," Basil said, pacing around. "Your new landlady has been playing dirty tricks on us, Doctor!"

"She has been very single-minded in her pursuit of you," I agreed. "Holmes did attempt to speak with her. I'm afraid he had little luck."

"Obviously," Basil said. "You say Mrs. Hudson is due to return soon?"

"Tomorrow, I believe," I said.

"Well, then it will all be resolved," Dawson said happily.

"Until Mrs. Hudson goes away again," Basil said.

"I shall tell her what happened," I said reassuringly. "You know Mrs. Hudson is very fond of you both. She will not allow this to happen again."  
"See that it doesn't," Basil said imperiously. "Come, Dawson." He swept away, leaving the poisoned candy on my bedside table. I would have to remember to find the rest of it and dispose of it before any other little creatures could find it.

I was alerted to Mrs. Hudson's return the next day by the sound of raised voices in the hallway, and descended the stairs to find Mrs. Turner in a state of some distress. "The gunfire and the criminal relics are bad enough, but did you know you have a mouse problem, Martha? I lay traps for them but someone kept removing them, and I have a very good idea who! I had to resort to poison. I expect it is only a matter of time before your problem is solved."

"Poison!" Mrs. Hudson cried. "For heaven's sake, you didn't lay out poison for those poor little mice?"

I smiled. "Rest assured, Mrs. Hudson, I have found and taken care of the poison candy. There were no ill effects."

"Oh, thank heavens," Mrs. Hudson said, before rounding on our neighbor. "Now, see here, I ask you to leave everything as it is when you look after my house. That includes the mice. As it happens, Mr. Holmes is very fond of them, and I won't see them put in any danger!"

Mrs. Turner stared at us both before stalking out the door in a huff. Mrs. Hudson, who had not even yet removed her cloak or set down her bags, looked at me ruefully. "I am sorry, Doctor. I had no idea she would go after Basil. I quite forgot she did not know about him."

"I doubt she would understand," I said. "Allow me to take your bags into your rooms." I followed her into her sitting room. "You will have to replenish your stock of candy. I was forced to throw out anything I thought had been in contact with the poison, and I know Basil is fond of it."

"Oh, I am so glad no harm came to them, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said. "I should not have forgiven myself."

"Holmes is not the only one who is fond of those little fellows," I said. "Though I think that Mrs. Turner may not be so willing to look after us next year when you visit your sister."

"That is easily solved. It is about time my sister visits me for a change, don't you agree?" Mrs. Hudson said. "Thank you, Doctor," she added as I piled her bags in the sitting room. "It is very good to be home."


	29. Chapter 29

Prompt: Abroad, from SheWhoScrawls

* * *

It is a capital mistake to theorize before one is in possession of the facts, so when faced with a prospective case I often had to force my mind onto other subjects until I was able to ascertain the complete particulars. Watson, incidentally, is excellent at assisting me to do this, for he has never badgered me to explain anything until I am ready, and is quite happy to follow any line of conversation I should choose in the meantime.

If one must have a companion, surely one who is skilled at _silence_ is ideal. Though I know I am being unfair, for Watson has many skills I have come to value. Why, I once thought it a trial to carry on a conversation even with Mycroft for longer than an hour, and there are times I am surprised to find that Watson and I have whiled away entire afternoons of six or seven hours in conversation. I do hope he will be able to accompany me, as I remembered my latest client came to me from Rome. I have become quite used to having him beside me.

On hearing Watson's tread on the stairs, I took up the coal scuttle to offer him a cigar. "Incidentally, my dear Watson, do you have any objection to accompanying me to Rome?" I asked as he set down his hat and medical bag.

Watson, in his usual way, did not seem to find this question odd. "Today, Holmes?" he asked, as if it was perfectly natural that we should go off to Italy with no preparation.

"Tomorrow, rather. I have been offered a case by a wealthy Italian businessman who is anguished about the loss of some prize statues from his private collection," I said.

Watson looked rather impressed, though I am not sure why. "You are moving up in the world," he said. "Congratulations."

I scoffed at this. "One wealthy businessman is much the same as any other, regardless of what country they call home. I have helped enough of our English breed of businessman and I doubt the Italian one shall be any different. But the case does have several factors of interest, most notably that the statues have been found smashed on the streets outside."

"Why should any thief do such a thing? I assume we are talking about Classical sculpture, or else the work of the Renaissance masters. Surely they would fetch a great price on the black market?" Watson asked.

"Precisely," I said. "Furthermore, the works are all too old for anything of value to be hidden within them. It promises to be an interesting case and we shall have the hospitality of our wealthy host. Are you coming, Watson?"

"Well, Holmes, I would very much like to," Watson said. "I have never been to Italy, and I have always wanted to see it. St. Peter's, the Coliseum, the Forum." A dreamy look entered his eyes, and I was sure he was imagining all the great events of the Roman Empire that he had undoubtedly drank in as a boy at school. I suppose I learned them too, though by now I have certainly erased all memory of them from my brain-attic. That is hardly useful information.

"This is not a holiday, Watson," I warned him. "We are on a case, much as we would be here in London. There will not be time for sightseeing." My dear Watson has the extraordinary ability to find the picturesque and romantic in every location I have seen him in. Heaven knows what he would be like in Rome.

"Yes, of course, Holmes," Watson said. "I cannot remain long away from my position in any case." Though he did look most disappointed; perhaps I can make sure we at least see the Coliseum. He will be most dejected the entire time if I do not.

* * *

"I believe, Watson, I may have found a police force more imbecilic than Scotland Yard," I groused. "I find it impossible to believe that no official police force could have solved that. It was entirely simple. Anyone could have figured it out!"

"Only no one else did figure it out. You did, Holmes," Watson said. We were walking along the crowded, messy streets of Rome after I had solved the case in a mere two days. It was a very simple matter of an affair with a serving girl who had become jealous and destroyed the one thing she knew was precious to her employer - his statues. I hardly needed to leave London for something this trivial. "Though it is unfortunate the railroad could not exchange our return tickets so we could leave earlier," Watson said.

That was entirely my fault. I had booked our return tickets for a week after our arrival, thinking we were to be engaged on a case of interest. Now we would be stuck here for the next five days, and the prospect did nothing to cheer me. Without a case, I could at least have worked at my chemistry experiments, written one of the many monographs I was planning, or at least practiced my violin. But all my usual pastimes were currently in London, of absolutely no use while I was in Rome. That in itself did nothing to lift my mood. The city was so completely different from London, in light, sounds, atmosphere, that I felt quite adrift. I did not even know my way around the Eternal (Infernal?) City.

It occurred to me that I had not been paying attention to where we were, and sure enough, we were indeed lost. "Watson, you don't happen to know where we are, do you?" I asked. I should have spent time studying the maps of Rome until I knew it as well as I knew London. Never mind that the city appeared to be a confusing mess of side streets and alleys that put London to shame.

"Not at all," Watson said, though he seemed remarkably cheerful about this. I looked askance at him, and he smiled. "One of these shops must surely sell maps. We shall simply have to find our way back." He was, of course, used to my exact knowledge of London, and was undoubtedly trusting me to lead us back safely to our host's villa. I wonder when it was he began trusting me so completely that he stopped being aware at all of his surroundings.

"I suppose so," I said. "I do not like not knowing where I am. Besides, it is altogether too crowded and noisy here." The sounds of London, while loud, were entirely different.

Watson chuckled. "You should take a visit to Bombay, old fellow. Now there is a crowded city. This feels quite open in comparison."

We walked on, until the tiny alleys spilled out onto one of the piazza that seemed strewn haphazardly all over the city. I wondered vaguely which one this was and if I could find our way back from it when Watson tapped my arm. "Holmes, look," he said. "It is the Pantheon."

I turned around to see a large, domed building with columns and an inscription declaring it the work of some Roman emperor. "It is right in the middle of the city," I said in some surprise.

"They say you cannot walk in Rome without coming across something ancient," Watson said. "But, never mind, Holmes. We can find our way from here." He somehow managed to find the only other Englishman in the entire vicinity and after a few moments conversation, returned with a smile. "I have got us directions to the Coliseum. It is the only major landmark I could think of, but you know where our host's villa is from there, Holmes, don't you?"

"Yes," I said. "It is not very far. Lead on, Watson."

We soon emerged into more open area around the Coliseum, and I suppressed a sigh of relief. I should make a study of all major European cities, so that I shall know where I am as easily as I do in London no matter where I am. I began to set off for our host's villa when I saw Watson look longingly at the Coliseum, though he seemed to be attempting to hide it from me.

I turned back around. "It is a trifle early to return to our host's," I said.

Watson smiled broadly and immediately took my arm to lead me toward the Coliseum. We joined the throngs of people looking around and began to climb up the seats. "They just allow anyone to climb it?" I asked. "Isn't this a very old structure?" I had the idea that it should be better preserved if no one was allowed on it, not to mention that it might not be entirely stable anymore.

"It has stood for nearly two thousand years, Holmes. I am sure it will be fine," Watson said. He gestured out at the center of the building. "It would have been covered in a sand pit for the games, of course. What we see is what was underneath. That is where the gladiators and animals for the games were kept. I suppose the prisoners too."

"Prisoners?" I asked, my interest piqued.

"Yes, Holmes. You know they executed criminals in public here," Watson said. "In gruesome ways, too. Some were forced to fight trained gladiators to the death, other ripped apart by animals. Quite barbaric."

"I imagine to the condemned man, whether his death is by hanging or by lion matters little," I said. Watson looked out at the scene before us, and I could tell he was no longer seeing the decrepit ruin in front of us, but what it must have looked like two thousand years ago, filled with spectators and a fight about to begin. There are times I envy Watson his imagination; for it seems merely to enhance his life instead of drive him out of his mind as mine does when not occupied.

"Imagine such a civilization falling into dust," Watson mused. "Only these traces of them left."

"They do not seem to me to have much to recommend them," I said. "I much prefer a concert to a gladiatorial contest, myself."

Watson chuckled. "So do I, Holmes. Yet they ruled most of their world."

"As we do now," I said.

"Yes," Watson said. "You don't suppose we shall meet the same fate, do you? All empires fall."

"I suppose there will come a time when the world's power is centered elsewhere than London," I said. "It hardly matters to me."

On emerging from the Coliseum, Watson pointed out yet another group of ruins just across the street. "There is the Forum, Holmes," he said. "The very center of Rome's government." He began walking toward it so I had no choice but to follow him, and soon we were walking through what was left of the buildings. "Here is the Senate chamber. Cicero, Caesar, they all made their speeches here." He stood on the entrance to what had been the Senate chamber. "Caesar was murdered here." He looked at me as though this should be of interest to me, though I only laughed.

"Come, Watson, that is a murder that was easily solved. Even I know that his assailants attacked him in broad daylight and bragged openly of the deed." Hardly the best murderers, though such braggadocio was common in political assassinations. The consequences of such an act were rarely prison, and very often resulted in the murderers ascending to the very same office the victim had held.

Still, as Watson explored the ruins of the Forum he seemed to be enjoying himself very much, and I considered that this sort of aimless sightseeing I had always abhorred was not so unpleasant after all, at least, if there were interesting sights and one was in good company. Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to expand beyond England. One never did know where the most interesting crimes should occur, and it would be a mistake to limit myself. Though I should have to find some way of convincing Watson to accompany me, though if this trip was any indication, he would be happy to.

When at last the sun began to set, I took Watson's arm to lead him back to our host's villa. "I daresay we shall have enough time tomorrow to view St. Peters," I said, and could not help returning his surprised smile. No, it was not so very unpleasant to be on holiday after all.

* * *

A/N: The inscription on the Pantheon actually declares it the work of Agrippa, who was not an emperor, but then Holmes would have deleted that from his brain-attic :)


	30. Chapter 30

Prompt: Blushing, from Madam'zelleG

* * *

The first year of the new century was greeted by all with optimism and a certain surety that we as a society were on the cusp of momentous change. The evidence for this was all around in the changes that had taken place in the great city of London since I had first taken rooms with Sherlock Holmes nearly twenty years earlier. The motorcar was fast overtaking the horse and buggy as the main mode of transportation, while the Underground rail system was expanding to reach outlying neighborhoods so that the old 'bus routes were much less used. It was now possible to listen to concerts in the comfort of one's own home, thanks to Mr. Edison's marvelous phonograph, and the advent of the telephone meant that communication was faster and easier than ever before. These new marvels were embraced by some and derided by others. I, for instance, liked nothing better than to sit and listen to a musical recording after a long day, while my friend Sherlock Holmes maintained that the quality was so poor the phonograph would never be a substitute for a live performance. He was much fonder of the telephone than I was, for it allowed him to update those clients who possessed one without waiting for them to receive and then answer a telegram. We were both very much interested in learning to drive a motorcar, though we had no plans to purchase one.

One innovation we had as yet paid little attention to was the invention of the motion picture camera. Holmes was not fond of theatre in general, and I believed that much of the spirit of a play should be lost if it could only be viewed through those small peep hole theatres I had seen sprouting up throughout London. We were hardly alone in this, for many of the great stage actors derided their onscreen counterparts as little more than cheap pretenders, and it was generally regarded as an amusement for the lower classes. Yet on a spring day in 1900, Holmes and I found ourselves caught in a sudden downpour, and hurried for any shelter we could find.

"That was more like Scottish weather," I remarked, for such drastic changes in weather were something I associated more with our Northern neighbor.

"Yes, our English weather is usually much more consistent," Holmes remarked.

"Consistently wet," I said. "Where are we?" I did not recognize the building, which appeared to be a disused shop at first glance, but was darkened inside so that I could hardly see. I wondered if perhaps we had stumbled into an abandoned building when a light at one side of the room came on. As my eyes adjusted, I realized we were not the only people in the room, for there were rows of hard, wooden seats facing what I now realized was a screen.

"I believe we are in a theater," I said to Holmes.

"One of those new-fangled 'nickelodeons,'" my friend answered derisively.

"I had read they were opening one in London," I said. At this, someone in the last row of seats turned around to tell us to be quiet, and I lowered my voice. "We may as well stay. I doubt it has stopped raining."

Holmes did not have a chance to answer, for at that moment the screen began to play a reel. Having never seen a motion picture before, I was somewhat curious, and I focused my attention on it. The scene was a small room with a table, on which sat a sack of what I presumed was money. A man, who appeared to be a criminal of some sort, was filling the sack with valuables when a second man entered the scene.

I am hardly a deductive reasoner, but I am capable of some leaps of intuition, and upon seeing the second figure's dressing gown and cigar, I had to stop myself from gasping aloud. Of course it was Holmes, though nothing else would have identified him as such. I could not help smiling, though I doubted my companion would be similarly impressed. As I watched, the actor portraying Holmes tapped the criminal on the shoulder, as which point he vanished into thin air, leaving the sack of valuables behind. I watched, enthralled as the onscreen Holmes searched, then sat down until the thief suddenly reappeared. The film was not long, a missed gunshot, a chase around the table, until finally Holmes was left with the sack before it too disappeared, and then it was over. I confess my mouth was hanging open in some shock in a most ungentlemanlike way, for I had never expected that my friend should be immortalized on film. I turned to Holmes, who looked utterly horrified at what he had witnessed.

"I have seen you look less upset at the scenes of vicious murders," I said.

"I can count this the scene of a vicious murder, at least of character," Holmes said. "How utterly preposterous. Disappearing sacks of valuables, a man vanishing into thin air. If this is what is to be considered art, I believe we can weep for the future, Watson."

"It is not so very bad, Holmes," I said. "I should have realized it would come to this. It is not much different from the play that fellow Gillette wrote and acted in."

Holmes gave me a withering glance, for this was hardly the first time we had clashed over the play. "Gillette insisted on marrying me off, Watson!"

"I did apologize for that," I said. I had had to approve the play on its initial writing, but any changes had been handled by my literary agent, Dr. Doyle, and he had failed me for the first and only time in allowing Holmes's marriage on the stage. "There was no sign of a marriage in this film, though."

"Please, Watson, spare me your opinions of the merits of film," Holmes said. "Someday it shall only be this medium that you and I are known; though no one should know you exist if this was all they had seen of us, and any small reputation I have shall be utterly destroyed."

We were interrupted by a small man wearing a garishly colored vest, who stared at us some shock. I was sure he was about to admonish us for entering his theater without paying the price of admission, when he suddenly broke out in a grin. "Why, I can hardly believe my eyes! You are Sherlock Holmes himself! And this must be Dr. Watson!" He wrung my hand enthusiastically. "I am so pleased you have come to see my theater, and on the exact day I showed this very film! Why, it is direct from America, you know. I do hope you enjoyed it."

"Yes, very much," I said, throwing a sidelong look at Holmes before he could betray his true feelings. "I never thought I should see Holmes onscreen." Judging by this film, he was now so well known that he needed nothing else to identify him other than a dressing gown and cigar. Had my stories truly become so famous?

"Your stories, Doctor, are so very well-written and exciting that they make a natural subject for a motion picture," the man said, as if he had read my mind, or followed my thoughts as Holmes did. "This is surely the first of many. The technology used in motion pictures is improving every day, and surely will allow a full story to be told. I think you can look forward to seeing more of your stories filmed, Dr. Watson. You have surely written yourself into immortality!"

I was surprised at the effusive praise and stammered thanks, though Holmes leaned over and whispered to me, "You know you are blushing, dear fellow."

I once again thanked the theater owner, and after greeting many theater-goers who were excited to meet us, we emerged onto the street, where it was once again sunny. I could not suppress a smile, imagining what the theater owner had said. Perhaps there would indeed be more films of Holmes's cases. Perhaps someday I should even see myself portrayed on screen. What an odd thought.

"I am very glad that is over," Holmes said. "I shall be quite content not to see myself portrayed on film again."

"Still, it was very interesting," I said. "I can hardly imagine what technology it took to make the thief vanish like that. Most ingenious."

"Yes, I suppose there were some factors of interest," Holmes conceded. "Perhaps if the subject were not myself I could even see fit to enjoy more of these motion pictures. Imagine if this technology could be adapted to the field of crime, Watson! If a motion picture camera were to be set up, one could catch a criminal in the very act! The possibilities truly are limitless."

I laughed. "You should be glad the technology is not yet up that point, for you would be out of a job," I said.

"There will always be need for a criminal specialist," Holmes said. "But this new century holds some interesting possibilities, my dear Watson. Some very interesting possibilities."

We never did go to see any further films of my friend's cases, though in future years that theater owner was indeed proved right, for many such "movies" of Holmes's adventures were made all over the world in the first two decades of the medium alone. Though he and I did come to enjoy motion pictures in general, especially after discovering that mysteries were quite popular a subject, and we became frequent attendees at our local nickelodeon. Though I imagine we were hardly popular guests, as Holmes always insisted on trying to solve the mystery before the solution was presented and usually spoiled the ending for anyone else present. The twentieth century, I mused, would undoubtedly be full of many more such innovations, and I for one was eager to see any marvels it would produce.

* * *

A/N: The film I used for this prompt is a real one, called _Sherlock Holmes Baffled_ , and is the first time Holmes was ever portrayed onscreen. It dates from 1900, though I think it was shown in America and I have no idea if it would have been seen in Britain.


	31. Chapter 31

Prompt: resolutions, from mrspencil

A/N: Well, I never did catch up but I did finish. Apologies for the somber mood of this response, but I found my inspiration in the centennial of the ending of WWI.

I enjoyed so much doing this challenge again and reading everyone else's responses. Thanks to everyone for a fun December and a HUGE thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for organizing this every year. Happy New Year and I hope to be back in December (perhaps before if my Holmes muse cooperates).

* * *

Since my return from the blood-soaked fields of France, I had hardly paid attention to the date, or any other goings-on throughout the world. I had seen far too much of the result of such things during the past five years. Instead, Holmes and I spent much time seated in front of the fire, reminiscing of better times, or else I read quietly while he played his violin.

For I had accepted Holmes's request, made almost immediately upon my return after Armistice Day, that I should join him in his retirement in Sussex Downs. Having few other options open to me, and knowing that I could not return to private practice and that I should not be living alone, I agreed. I moved at once into the small bedroom that had been set aside for me since Holmes had left London, and resolved to live out my retirement in peace, as Holmes had done since 1904.

Peace. I contemplated the word as I watched Holmes read the newspaper over the breakfast table. A few words of the headlines jumped out at me, all about the peace that had been declared.. While I was immensely grateful that the horror of the war was finally over, I could not the feeling that the peace was somewhat empty, devoid of meaning. I was not the only one who felt such, for I knew many of my fellow soldiers were aghast that peace had been declared with no victor, that the destruction of the previous five years was all for nothing save some war reparations that many felt did not go far enough. Holmes and I did not discuss the war, for I knew that like many on the home front, he was merely grateful the war was at last over, and I could not fault him for that. Such unprecedented destruction had very nearly destroyed an entire generation, brought down three of the continent's great monarchies, and left some of the greatest countries in Europe in ruins. I could not see the point of it, and it rang false to me to celebrate a peace when there never should have been a war in the first place. If only we could turn back the clock to the summer of 1914! But already, the time before the war seemed far away, as if it had been a different world from the one we now lived in. I remembered how we had entered this twentieth century with such hope and optimism. Now it seemed scarred, as if it should never recover from this first great hardship.

I stopped my musings to wonder if Holmes still read nothing but the criminal news and the agony column when he suddenly folded his his newspaper and glanced at me. "You look like you have been daydreaming," he said. No doubt he could tell what had been occupying my mind, but in his retirement it seems Holmes has at last learned the value of tact, and so he did not say so.

"I do not know if one can call it daydreaming," I said. "Every time I contemplate the war it is more like a waking nightmare."

"It has seemed such for five long years," he said.

"It is not so much the war itself," I said. I had been fortunate in that I was not at the front, though my hospital had been close enough that we always heard the bombs and the gunfire. "I do not believe there is one person who can say what exactly this war was over, or what was gained by it. Not even your brother, Holmes!" I surveyed my friend over the table. "I am sorry, old fellow. I did not expect such an outburst."

"Not at all, Watson. You are right. Mycroft said as much to me many times," Holmes said. "I have never seen such pointless destruction in my life."

Perhaps it was the amount of time since the war's end, or perhaps it was that we had now started, but it suddenly seemed as if we could no longer avoid talking about it. Indeed, perhaps it was beneficial that we should. The war was beginning to feel as if it was a great weight hanging over us, much as it was hanging over the whole country. I saw the same haunted looks as I had seen in the hospital in France here on the streets of Sussex Downs. It seemed as if there had been no resolution, that the horror of the war far eclipsed the cause. Who remembered Archduke Franz Ferdinand now, other than as the catalyst for this destruction? Even the empire and monarchy to which he had belonged was a casualty of this Great War.

"It hardly feels as if it is a new year," Holmes mused.

"Is it New Year's Day already?" I asked. The days had largely run together since my return, for although the date of the Armistice was forever emblazoned in everyone's minds, the days since had been a whirlwind of activity, with the soldiers returning and then the strictly enforced quarantines due to the Spanish 'flu. I hardly noticed the dates anymore.

"Yes," Holmes said. "It is now 1919, old fellow."

1919\. A lost year, it already seemed to me, for it came between the worst five years the world had yet seen and the start of a new decade. But, it was still the first year of peace since the autumn of 1914, and that must surely count for something. There was something promising in the idea of a new beginning, one that would surely be informed by the lessons we had learned from the previous five years. "I am glad to see 1918 in the past," I said finally.

Holmes nodded. "I for one am looking forward to a return to normal," he said.

"I do not know if there can be a return to normal, Holmes," I said. "I expect we shall have to spend this year and perhaps the next decade besides creating one anew."

"Then we shall resolve to do so," Holmes said, some of the old steely glint entering his eyes. "I trust that all these puffed up national leaders have learned the folly of their pride, so that a thing such as this war will not happen again."

I smiled sadly. "If only there were such a thing as New Year's resolutions for countries," I said. "And a way to ensure that they were followed."

Holmes made a face. "New Year's resolutions are a pointless exercise, Watson. One cannot simply decide to make a change only because it is a new year without the will to see it through." Far from thinking my companion bitter, I knew his opinion was informed by his own struggles with his bad habits, which had taken years and much patience to overcome. Perhaps he was right. It did seem fitting that a resolution not to allow anything resembling the previous five years to take place again should follow directly on a war that had no resolution at all.

"You shall not make any resolutions, then, Holmes?" I asked, half teasing, for I already knew the answer.

"Anything I wish to do in the coming year I shall certainly do without needing to make a formal announcement of it," Holmes said. "Though I do not intend to do much. There is little I wish to do other than conduct some chemical experiments, tend my bees, and enjoy the peace of retirement. I did not get much of a chance to do so before I was forced to join the preemptive war effort." In his way, Holmes had done as much for the war as I had, for he had continued consulting with our intelligence officials throughout the war.

"I must agree with you, Holmes. I have no wish to do anything else but accustom myself once again to peace," I said. The sun shone through the curtains, lighting up the fields beyond Holmes's cottage. It was a reminder that, while destruction had rained down much of the Continent, the war had not destroyed everything. The sun would still rise, come spring the flowers would bloom once again and the birds would come to nest. Perhaps a nation _could_ heal, though the road would be long and hard and the outcome different than what we had thought at its start. "Perhaps I shall take up my pen again," I said, giving my companion a sidelong look. He had never warmed to my tales of our adventures, though he had given his permission for their publication readily enough. I sometimes suspected he did not dislike them as much as he pretended to anymore.

"A capital idea, Watson," Holmes said. "Though perhaps you may expand your subjects beyond my cases, old fellow. You can certainly write of anything you choose and no doubt any other story would be as popular."

I laughed aloud, to which Holmes appeared gratified. I realized it had been long months since I had laughed at all. "I have thought of it, but I have notes of too many cases that will be of interest to the public before I can think of writing anything else," I said. "Besides, I greatly enjoy writing them. It brings back many memories when I do."

"Well, there can be no harm in publishing them now," Holmes said. "It might even do the nation some good, to know there is still something of the old days left."

"You sound maudlin, Holmes," I said.

"Maudlin?" Holmes said. "Not at all, my dear Watson. In fact, I am more than ready to meet this new year, and the decade to come. The east wind has passed, old friend, and while much was lost, much still remains. I must believe the days to come will be brighter, if we resolve to make them so."

"I shall drink to that," I said. "To days to come, Holmes."


End file.
